The Seventeen Open Tabs

A place to put the noise. ✦ ✧ ✦ diary ✦ writing ✦ witch notes ✦ brain weather ✦ soft survival

[theseventeenopentabs]

🌙💚 The Little Workroom in the Middle of the Night

Tonight has been one of those strange little nights where the world gets quiet enough for me to hear myself think, but not so quiet that it turns mean.

I woke up around two in the morning after actually getting a decent stretch of sleep, which honestly feels like a tiny miracle with socks on. I have not had a good chunk of sleep like that in a while, so I am taking it as a win. Maybe not a perfect win. Maybe not a gold-medal, confetti-cannon, parade-through-town kind of win. But definitely a win with a little ribbon on it.

💙 Sleep happened. 💚 The house was quiet. 💛 My brain did not immediately try to set the curtains on fire.

So I sat in my chair, played on my laptop, and let the night be what it was.

There is something oddly sweet about being awake when everyone else is asleep. The whole house feels borrowed. The air feels softer. Nobody needs me. Nobody is asking questions. Nobody is making noise. It is just me, the glow of the screen, and whatever little creative creature decided to crawl out of the wall and sit beside me for company.

Tonight that creature wanted organization.

Not writing. Not pressure. Not forcing myself to be productive in the scary, exhausting way. Just organizing. Setting things up. Making a little space for future-me to succeed.

I have been working on my blog, and I finally have it looking the way I want. It feels pretty. It feels personal. It feels like me. I have my main blog, my Evidence Locker, and my Poem Vault. Little doors. Little rooms. Little signs that say, “This is where this part of me lives.”

That feels good.

There is something very old-internet about it, in the best way. Like learning code by poking at it with a stick until something magical happens. Like MySpace raised me, and now I am back in the glitter mines with better taste and more emotional damage.

🖤 Main blog: the words 📸 Evidence Locker: the now 🔐 Poem Vault: the old feelings with dust on them 🌙 Me: somewhere between all three, holding a coffee cup I probably should not have this late

I also started setting up a Milanote board for what might eventually become a short story collection. Not because I am trying to finish the whole thing right now. I am not. I am not in a rush. I am just making a place for the stories to sit.

That matters.

Sometimes organization is not about productivity. Sometimes it is about tenderness. Sometimes it is saying, “I know my brain gets overwhelmed, so I am going to build it a little bridge.” A cute bridge. A spooky bridge. A bridge with mood boards and cursed objects and color palettes.

Tonight I started with The All-Seeing Eye, which feels right. It is creepy and sharp and strange, and it has that exact kind of weird little heartbeat I love in a story. I made space for the mood, the colors, the images, the dread, the pretty parts, the horrible parts. Not writing it yet. Just giving it somewhere to live.

And honestly, that feels like progress.

Not the loud kind.

The quiet kind.

The kind where I am not trying to become a whole new person overnight. I am just making it easier for tomorrow-me to pick up where tonight-me left off.

That might be the softest kind of success.

So tonight, I am proud of the little things:

💚 I slept. 💙 I made my blog feel like home. 💛 I organized instead of spiraling. 🖤 I let myself enjoy the quiet. ✨ I remembered that setting myself up counts.

Maybe that is enough for one night.

Maybe enough does not have to be dramatic.

Maybe sometimes enough is just a pretty blog, a sleepy house, a strange story waiting patiently in its corner, and me sitting here in the dark, feeling like I am slowly making places for all the pieces of myself to go.

That is not nothing.

That is a little magic.

And I will take it. 🌙💚

[theseventeenopentabs]

📚🌙 Thirteen Little Hauntings and One Very Tired Brain

✨🖤✨ Current mood: exhausted, proud, haunted by my own imagination, and possibly being followed by a cursed tape deck. ✨🖤✨

It is 2 a.m., which means my brain has officially become a thrift store after midnight.

There are ideas stacked on ideas. Weird little haunted objects on every shelf. Emotional damage in a decorative bowl by the door. A half-lit hallway somewhere in the back. A sign that says PLEASE RETURN WHAT YOU BORROWED, which seems polite until you realize it may be a threat.

So naturally, tonight I accidentally found a book.

Not wrote a book.

Not finished a book.

Let’s not get wild.

But I found the shape of one, and honestly, that feels like a big deal.

📚✨📚

The current plan is thirteen short stories, each somewhere around 2,000 to 3,000 words.

That means if I actually finish them one at a time, I could have a real short story collection. A weird little collection. A haunted object collection. A “please do not touch that unless you are emotionally prepared for consequences” collection.

And honestly?

That feels very me.

💚 There is a story where the Devil eats grilled cheese in someone’s kitchen.

🩵 There is a story about a tape deck that rewinds time.

💜 There is a story about soulmates finding each other in every lifetime, except the one where death got there first.

❤️ There is a story about an eye growing in a man’s hand because apparently I cannot be trusted with body horror.

💛 There is a pocket watch curse, a stolen song, a burning library, a snow globe full of grief, ghost cabs to New Florida, and whatever Harold Vendor Blumfield is doing at the Daydream Washeteria.

I don’t know when my brain became a lost-and-found department for impossible things, but here we are.

🗝️🌙🗝️

And the wild part is that they actually do fit together.

They are not all the same story, but they all seem to live in the same strange hallway.

Ordinary people. Ordinary places. A kitchen. A library. A thrift store. A lake. A pawn shop. A hallway. A laundromat.

Then suddenly the world tilts, and something impossible steps out holding paperwork.

That is very much the flavor right now.

✨ Domestic weirdness. ✨ Haunted bureaucracy. ✨ Cursed objects with terrible customer service. ✨ Grief wearing a pretty coat. ✨ Love showing up late but still somehow finding the door.

My life feels a little like that too, honestly.

Just me standing in the middle of everything I need to do, everything I want to write, everything I need to clean, everything I’m trying to become, and some small goblin behind the counter going:

“Ma’am, this was due in 1997.”

And okay. Fair.

I am tired.

Not just sleepy tired, although yes, absolutely that. It is very much bedtime.

But also big-life tired.

The kind where the house needs me, the kids need me, my body needs me, my brain needs me, and my stories are standing in the corner like thirteen feral children with glitter glue and knives.

But tonight I also feel proud.

Because I keep thinking I am scattered.

I keep thinking I am bouncing from one strange idea to another.

But maybe I am not scattered.

Maybe I am collecting.

Maybe all these odd little pieces have been gathering themselves into something bigger while I was busy surviving the day.

Maybe the open tabs are not chaos.

Maybe they are a table of contents.

💚🌿💚

That feels important.

I do not have to finish all thirteen stories tonight.

I do not have to fix my entire life tonight.

I do not have to become a polished, disciplined, glowing creature who drinks enough water and folds laundry immediately and writes literary fiction while sitting upright like a Victorian governess with Wi-Fi.

Tonight, I just have to notice that the book exists.

That is enough.

Tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever my brain stops hissing like a wet possum, I can pick one story.

Just one.

I can work on it. I can shape it. I can finish it. Then I can move to the next.

One story at a time.

One strange door at a time.

One haunted object returned to its proper shelf.

📼🧀👁️⏱️🌙

For now, I am going to let myself be tired.

I am going to let the collection sit there in the dark, breathing softly.

I am going to trust that it will still be there when I wake up.

Because honestly, the stories have waited this long.

They can wait one more night.

🌙✨🌙

Goodnight from the lost-and-found department.

Please return what you borrowed.

Or don’t.

But don’t act surprised when it follows you home.

🗝️🖤📚

[theseventeenopentabs]

A Place to Put the Noise ✨🖤

Tonight, I built myself a little corner of the internet.

Not in a huge, triumphant, “look at me becoming a new person” kind of way. More like a raccoon with a glue gun and an emotional support playlist, quietly dragging shiny things into a nest until it starts to feel like home.

The blog has a name now.

The Seventeen Open Tabs.

And honestly, that feels right. Maybe too right. It sounds like the inside of my head when I am trying to remember laundry, dinner, writing, school, water, my kids, my husband, the cats, my body, my goals, my stories, and whatever random thought just kicked the door open wearing tap shoes.

The subtitle is simple:

A place to put the noise.

That is what this is. Not a brand. Not a performance. Not a perfect curated little life where every sentence is polished and every feeling has been house-trained. This is where the noise goes when I need it to stop crawling around inside my chest.

Tonight I added gold glitter to the page.

That sounds ridiculous, but it matters.

The first few attempts were not it. Sunflowers were almost there. Snowglobes were absolutely not there. The hearts were cute, but they did not feel like mine. Then the gold glitter started falling across the dark green background, and suddenly the page looked the way I wanted it to feel: soft, witchy, late-night, a little haunted, a little hopeful.

Tiny sparks drifting through the dark.

That is kind of the whole thing, isn’t it?

I have been trying to figure out how to start again without turning “starting” into another impossible mountain. I keep wanting to fix everything all at once. My body. My house. My writing. My sleep. My routines. My brain. My whole tangled little existence.

But I do not need to fix everything tomorrow.

Tomorrow’s job is breakfast.

Tomorrow’s job is water.

Tomorrow’s job is walking around the block once.

Tomorrow’s job is writing something down before it turns into static.

That is it.

One loop. One meal. One tab closed gently.

I also finished my final paper, which still feels unreal. Twenty-one pages of Shakespeare and theory and brain smoke. I lived inside that paper for so long that finishing it felt less like victory and more like crawling out of a hedge maze with twigs in my hair and MLA citations stuck to my shoes.

But it is done.

And now there is space.

Not peaceful space, exactly. My brain does not know how to do peaceful without immediately checking the corners for danger. But there is space anyway. A strange little clearing.

So I made a blog.

I added my playlist because of course I did. Music is part of the architecture. It is not decoration. It is load-bearing. There are songs that know things about me before I do. There are songs that keep the lights on when I am running on spite, caffeine, and half a sandwich. There are songs that make the static feel less lonely.

I added little dividers. Little gold stars. Little sections. Tiny pieces of order.

Maybe that is what I am really doing tonight.

Not just decorating a blog.

Making proof.

Proof that I can build something small and beautiful without needing it to be perfect.

Proof that I can take the noise and give it a room.

Proof that I can start where I am.

Not smaller.

Not perfect.

Just moving.

Closing this tab for now. ✨

[theseventeenopentabs]

[theseventeenopentabs]

🌱 Tomorrow, I Start Where I Am

Not smaller. Not perfect. Just moving.

It is 4:30 in the morning, and apparently this is when I have decided to reorganize my entire existence.

Not dramatically.

Not with some impossible plan involving salads I hate, six-mile hikes, and becoming one of those people who wakes up cheerful at five in the morning.

I am starting with eggs.

Three eggs with Colby Jack, actually. A smoothie with strawberries, blueberries, and milk. Something filling. Something real. Something that does not involve standing in the kitchen eating peanut butter straight from the jar because I am bored, restless, sad, or simply wandering through the house like a hungry Victorian ghost. 🥜👻

I weigh 261 pounds.

I am five foot five.

I want to get down to 200.

That number feels huge when I stare directly at it, so I am trying not to stare directly at it. Sixty-one pounds is not tomorrow’s job. Tomorrow’s job is breakfast.

Tomorrow’s job is drinking water.

Tomorrow’s job is walking around my block once.

The block is 0.7 miles, which means almost nothing to me except that it is a complete loop. I leave my house, I go around, and I come back. There is something comforting about that. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. No vague destination. No expectation that I become an athlete overnight. Just one loop.

🚶‍♀️ Around the block. Back home. Done.

I also have two eight-pound weights. I do not know what half the exercise names mean, but I can learn. I can lift them five times. I can sit down and stand back up. I can hold onto the counter and strengthen my ankles. I can wake up the muscles around my hips and pelvis that have spent too many years folded into chairs, couches, cars, and survival mode.

My body is not lazy.

My body is underused, tired, and carrying more than anyone can see.

There is a difference.

💛 I am trying to treat it like something worth repairing instead of something worth punishing.

Food is going to be one of the harder parts.

Not because I do not know what healthy food is. I know what healthy food is. The problem is that food has become entertainment, comfort, stimulation, reward, distraction, and sometimes the easiest thing to reach for when my brain does not know what else to do.

I eat when I am bored.

I eat peanut butter like the jar has personally promised to fix my life.

I consume too much sugar.

I know these things.

Knowing has never been the same as changing.

So I am not banning everything. I am not creating some miserable little prison diet that lasts three days and ends with me eating everything in the pantry out of spite.

I am making rules I can actually follow.

🌸 Eat breakfast. 🌸 Drink water throughout the day. 🌸 Do not eat peanut butter from the jar. 🌸 Pause before boredom eating. 🌸 Keep fruit, yogurt, cheese, popcorn, carrots, hummus, and crackers around. 🌸 Sandwiches for lunch. 🌸 Chicken, ground beef, pasta, rice, potatoes, and normal family dinners at night. 🌸 Feed myself like a human being, not a problem waiting to be solved.

Batsy gets paid on Thursdays, so I am building the week around that. A real menu. A grocery list. Snacks that do not make me feel like I have failed before I even start.

I downloaded Finch again.

I have used it before, and maybe that matters. Maybe starting over does not mean I failed the first time. Maybe it just means I am returning to something that helped.

My goals are small on purpose:

🐦 Take my medicine. 🐦 Eat breakfast. 🐦 Walk the block. 🐦 Do my homework. 🐦 Drink water. 🐦 Scan the receipts. 🐦 Write something. 🐦 Catch myself once before I eat from boredom.

Once.

That is all.

I do not need to conquer every bad habit in one day. I need to notice one. Interrupt one. Make one better choice while the old choice is still yelling from the kitchen.

I also have homework to do.

I have a house to maintain.

I have two kids to feed.

I have a book series growing roots through my skull.

I have Hollow’s history sitting inside me, six pages deep, asking for more.

I have Cassie waiting for me.

I have a husband out there building a new future for us while I am here trying to build one inside myself.

There is so much I want to do.

Write more. Move more. Sleep better. Eat better. Clean without destroying myself. Feel proud of my days instead of wondering where they went.

I keep thinking I need to transform before I am allowed to begin.

But maybe beginning is the transformation.

Maybe tomorrow does not need fireworks.

Maybe it just needs eggs, berries, water, one walk, and one honest attempt.

🌿 Tomorrow, I start where I am.

Not where I think I should be.

Not where I used to be.

Not where someone else thinks I belong.

Here.

At 261 pounds.

At forty years old.

Tired, hopeful, stubborn, scared, and still here.

And for tomorrow, that is enough. 💚

[theseventeenopentabs]

🌒 Seventeen Tabs, Three Soundtracks, and One Very Long Day 🌒

Today felt like one of those days where every part of my life opened at once and refused to close.

Not crashed. Not frozen.

Just running loudly in the background.

🐾 The things I actually handled

I talked to Dog and Pony, and she agreed to take over our trail next month.

I cannot hare for that kennel right now. I do not have it in me. Not with how I feel, not with everything that has happened, and not with the way hashing has started to feel less like escape and more like another place where I have to manage people.

She was completely fine with it.

So I messaged Orange and asked to be taken off the calendar.

I also told Doodle that I could not afford the hash this weekend. He offered to pay for me, and I refused. That was kind of him, but I did not want to go badly enough to accept the money. I marked myself as not going.

That should have made me feel relieved.

Instead, my inbox immediately became a haunted house.

📱 Everyone has an opinion

Trying to talk to anyone about my husband feels dangerous right now.

Jake bad-mouthed him when I was already upset and started talking about broken promises.

Ryan threatened to call me if I did not answer.

Rage Release messaged me and said he is also taking a break from hashing, but I do not know whether his reasons are personal, kennel-related, or some combination of both.

And Batsy is talking about moving across the country now that he is working for a trucking company.

That one keeps landing in different places every time I think about it.

Sometimes it sounds like possibility.

Sometimes it sounds like another way everything could change before I am ready.

🏚️ And then came the housing threat

His mother threatened to evict us today.

In front of my child.

That is the part that left a particularly ugly taste in my mouth.

I do not have much goodwill left for anyone right now.

It is hard to feel soft when people keep handing you sharp things and acting surprised when you bleed.

🎬 Meanwhile, in the living room

My ten-year-old came home from a four-day vacation with her best friend and immediately developed the emotional equivalent of Velcro.

She did not want me out of her sight.

So there I was, stoned to the bone, out of cigarettes, trying to write while she watched television and YouTube and cycled through more Descendants songs than any human nervous system should be asked to process in one evening.

I had Little Shop of Horrors playing on my laptop.

She had Disney villains singing across the room.

My brain had several unrelated emergencies open in separate windows.

It was absurd.

It was also funny.

There are moments when life gets so chaotic that all you can do is sit in the middle of it and admire the architecture.

💻 Then she told me to leave

After following me around all day and refusing to let me out of her sight, she suddenly told me to go to Tadpole’s and write because she wanted to chill.

Just like that.

Apparently her nervous system had completed its inspection.

Mother located.

Mother intact.

Mother may now leave the building.

Children are astonishing little weather systems.

One minute, I am the only safe object in the universe.

The next, I am interrupting her YouTube schedule.

Honestly, fair.

✍️ What I keep coming back to

I still want to write.

Under all of it, I still want to write.

I want to disappear into Hollow’s history and Cassie’s silence. I want to build something that belongs to me. I want a place to put all this noise before it hardens inside me.

Maybe that is what this blog is.

Not a solution.

Not a clean ending.

Just a place where I can take the seventeen open tabs in my head and set them down one at a time.

Tonight, I handled what I could.

I stepped back from what I could not carry.

I said no.

I stayed home.

I kept my child safe.

I let the soundtracks play.

And somewhere under all that noise, I am still here.

Still thinking.

Still writing.

Still becoming.

🌿 Current status

Mood: emotionally overbooked Soundtrack: far too much Descendants Vice: no cigarettes, tragic Small victory: I protected my energy Open tabs: seventeen, minimum Next task: write something that belongs to me

[theseventeenopentabs]

🌿⚡ Standing at the Edge of Everything ⚡🌿

Lately, I have been doing a little bit of everything, which is probably why my brain feels like it has seventeen tabs open and at least three of them are playing music.

🖤 I have been writing.

Not always the book I think I am supposed to be writing, but I have been creating. I have been digging deeper into Hollow’s history, peeling back the layers of the pirate captain he used to be, the shadow demon he was forced to become, and the man buried beneath every name someone else gave him. I have been building his pain, his pride, his leadership, and the quiet ways he reclaimed himself.

And honestly, there is something familiar in that.

There is something painfully human about taking a name, a role, or a wound that was forced upon you and deciding that it belongs to you now.

💚 I have also been circling Cassie again.

She is still harder for me to reach than Azuma. Azuma arrives like purple lightning, fully formed and demanding attention. Cassie hides in the kudzu with her hood pulled over her head, watching from somewhere I cannot quite see.

But she is still there.

I have been thinking about Anthony’s funeral, the cold rain, the black umbrellas, and Cassie standing beyond the cemetery where no one knows to look for her. Except Micah. Of course Micah sees her, because he is always looking.

I may not be writing pages and pages yet, but I am building the weather around her. Sometimes that counts.

🟡 I Have Been Making Things

Apparently my current artistic crisis involves making the perfect little raccoon who matches my other tattoos without copying them. He needed personality. He needed a safety pin in his ear. He needed a sideways smirk that said he had absolutely been through someone’s trash and would do it again.

And after several rounds of raccoon surgery, I found him.

That ridiculous little creature made me happy. 🦝💚

🔵 Things at Home Are Changing

Batsy passed his CDL test.

I am proud of him. So unbelievably proud.

But pride and fear can live in the same room.

His success means that our lives may be about to change. He may be gone more. The routines we have built around each other may stretch into something new. There might be more quiet in the house, more time for me to write, and fewer reasons to feel guilty for disappearing into my own worlds.

That freedom sounds beautiful.

It also sounds lonely.

My ten-year-old is away until Thursday. My nineteen-year-old is fed and watered. The five adult cats are doing whatever secret cat politics they do when I am not looking, and the three tiny kittens are growing at an alarming rate.

Everyone needs something from me.

Food. Touch. Comfort. Attention. Answers. A clean kitchen. A flyer. A story. A plan.

Sometimes I love being needed.

Sometimes I want to crawl inside a blanket fort and become folklore.

🟠 I Have Been Thinking About My Own Value

I finally admitted that I am tired of being everyone’s free writer and designer.

My creativity is not an unlimited public resource.

Writing costs me energy. Designing costs me time. Even when something comes naturally to me, that does not mean it is effortless. So I have started setting prices. Writing begins at five dollars. Images and designs begin at ten. The amount goes up depending on the work.

If someone cannot pay, they cannot ask.

That may sound harsh, but I have spent too much time handing pieces of myself to people who barely said thank you.

I am learning that boundaries do not make me cruel.

They keep me from becoming empty.

🟣 So What Have I Been Doing Lately?

I have been raising children and cats.

I have been loving a husband whose future is opening into something new.

I have been writing demons, grieving teenagers, complicated villains, soft monsters, broken captains, and girls made of lightning.

I have been designing a raccoon with an army-green safety pin earring.

I have been trying to clean my house.

I have been trying to hear myself think.

I have been trying to decide what comes next.

And maybe that is where I am right now:

Not lost.

Not stuck.

Just standing at a threshold with too many bags in my hands, kittens at my feet, fictional people shouting behind me, and an unfamiliar road opening ahead.

🌿 I do not know exactly what my life is becoming.

But something is changing.

And for once, I think I might be allowed to change with it. ⚡

[theseventeenopentabs]

🐇✨ Diary of a Touched-Out Rabbit Hole Goblin

or: I Miss My Husband, I’m Mad at the Kennel, and My Brain Has Moved Into My Hero Academia Without a Forwarding Address

I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing right now.

That’s the honest truth.

There’s this version of me that thinks I should be productive. I should be writing my book. I should be cleaning my house. I should be doing hash stuff. I should be keeping up with everything and everyone and every tiny little responsibility that keeps crawling out from under the couch like a spider wearing a name tag.

But the actual version of me?

She is tired.

She is overwhelmed.

She is mad.

She misses her husband.

And she has apparently taken up temporary residence in a My Hero Academia rabbit hole, where fictional men have better emotional arcs than most real-life adults I know. 🫠

💥 The Kennel Can Sit in the Corner for a Minute

I don’t want to do anything HAB related right now.

And honestly? I’m allowed.

I’m mad at the kennel. I’m mad at how things went. I’m mad at people not showing up the way they were supposed to. I’m mad at feeling used. I’m mad at watching people act selfish and then expect community loyalty like it’s a vending machine they can kick until snacks fall out.

Hash is supposed to be chaos, yes.

But fun chaos.

Beer chaos. Trail chaos. “Why are we in this ditch?” chaos.

Not emotional labor chaos. Not “why am I the only one acting like other people matter?” chaos.

So no. I don’t want to make posts. I don’t want to organize. I don’t want to smile about it. I don’t want to fix it.

The kennel can sit there and think about what it’s done. 🐇🍺🚫

🧠 My Book Is Staring at Me Like I Owe It Money

And then there’s my book.

My actual book.

The one that matters.

The one I keep saying I want to write. The one I have built bones for, blood for, entire haunted little rooms for. The one with Cassie and Anthony and Micah and Hollow and all that grief-soaked kudzu waiting for me to come back.

And I want to be committed to it.

I really do.

But right now, commitment feels heavy. It feels like picking up a sword when I barely have the energy to pick up a sock.

That doesn’t mean I don’t love it. That doesn’t mean I’m not a writer. That doesn’t mean I’ve failed.

It means my brain is overloaded and my creativity is hiding under the bed with a flashlight and a snack.

Still, there’s guilt.

Because fanfic feels easy. The MHA stuff feels immediate. Azuma and Shoto and Katsuki and Hikari are all right there, dramatic and emotionally flammable and ready to give me dopamine on demand.

Meanwhile, my own book asks more of me.

It wants focus.

It wants courage.

It wants me to sit with the parts of myself I keep trying to dodge.

Rude, honestly. 📚🖤

💜 The Rabbit Hole Problem

I can’t live in a My Hero Academia rabbit hole forever.

I know that.

But I also know why I’m there.

It’s safe.

It gives me characters I can break and heal and love without having to look too hard at my own life for a minute. It lets me be creative without feeling like I’m failing at my “real” work. It gives me a place where tenderness is possible, where trauma gets held, where complicated people still get chosen.

And gods, sometimes that’s all I want.

To watch fictional people get chosen.

To write them being chosen.

To make a world where the girl who has been through too much still ends up surrounded by people who would burn the sky down for her.

I wonder why that appeals to me. Huge mystery. No clues anywhere. 🔍🙃

🏠 Meanwhile, Back in Reality

Batsy is still in Missouri.

At least another week.

And I hate it.

I hate him being gone. I hate the distance. I hate doing the day-to-day without him here. I hate that I miss him in this bone-deep, stupid, aching way while also being surrounded by people who need me constantly.

Because that’s the extra fun little contradiction:

I am touch starved.

And I am also touched out.

Explain that to someone who doesn’t live in a neurodivergent body and watch their brain short-circuit.

I miss my husband. I miss adult closeness. I miss being held in a way that asks nothing from me except to exist.

But my ten-year-old has separation anxiety and hyper little orbiting-planet energy, and she needs touch, reassurance, closeness, presence, attention, comfort, snacks, answers, all of it. And I love her. I love her so much it cracks me open.

But sometimes my skin feels like it has had enough.

Sometimes being needed feels like a thousand tiny hands ringing bells inside my nervous system.

And then I feel guilty, because what kind of mother gets overwhelmed by her own child needing her?

This kind.

A real one.

A human one.

A tired one.

A mom who is trying.

🫧 I Don’t Know What I’m Talking About Anymore

That’s what I said.

And I meant it.

But maybe I do know.

Maybe what I’m talking about is this:

I am lonely. I am overstimulated. I am angry. I am creatively blocked. I am avoiding things that matter because they matter. I am pouring myself into fictional worlds because the real one is too loud. I am tired of being responsible. I am tired of being disappointed. I am tired of missing someone who is not here. I am tired of my body being both a haunted house and a public park.

That’s blunt, but it’s true.

And I’d rather tell the truth than wrap it in glitter and pretend I’m fine.

I am not fine.

I am functioning.

There is a difference. ✨

🌙 So What Now?

I don’t have a grand answer.

No magical productivity plan.

No “girlboss your way out of emotional exhaustion” nonsense. Absolutely not. That can go die in a shallow grave behind a Hobby Lobby.

What I have is smaller.

Today, maybe I do one real-life thing.

One.

Maybe I pick up trash in the living room. Maybe I wash dishes. Maybe I feed myself something that didn’t come from spite and caffeine. Maybe I tell my kid, gently, that I love her and I need ten minutes where nobody touches me. Maybe I write five sentences of my book. Maybe I write one sentence. Maybe I just open the document and look at it like a suspicious raccoon.

And then maybe I go back to Azuma.

Because I’m not going to shame myself for needing a soft place to land.

But I’m also not going to unpack there permanently.

🖤 Tiny Truth of the Day

I am allowed to be overwhelmed without being broken.

I am allowed to miss my husband and still need space from my kids.

I am allowed to be angry at people who disappointed me.

I am allowed to avoid my book for a minute, but not abandon it.

I am allowed to use the rabbit hole as shelter, not a coffin.

I am allowed to be a whole messy person with too many tabs open in my brain and not enough hands to close them.

So today’s goal is not greatness.

Today’s goal is soup prevention. 🥣

Keep me from dissolving completely.

That’s enough.

For now. 💜

[theseventeenopentabs]

[theseventeenopentabs]

🐇📋 24 hour hash: the attendance banshee lived, barely

sunday morning-ish current status: exhausted, damp-socked, emotionally wrung out, still technically alive theme of the weekend: chaos incarnate with a side of emotional regulation practice

this weekend was supposed to be simple.

and by simple, i mean twelve trails, roughly sixty-six hashers, rain threatening the sky, out-of-town visitors packed into wowo’s house, and me armed with a clipboard like that was somehow going to protect me from the full spiritual violence of a 24 hour hash.

i was the attendance banshee.

i had names. i had a highlighter. i had a job. i had a cobalt blue tank top, black yoga shorts, my phone in my pocket, headphones ready, and the delusional confidence of a woman who thought she could stay in her designated spots, smoke, listen to music, take roll call, and keep the mayhem from climbing directly into her lap.

adorable, honestly.

🌧️ friday: the sky looked like it knew

friday morning started with that heavy, wet, about-to-open-up kind of sky. the kind of sky that does not rain so much as threaten to make a point.

so naturally, i got stoned and watched rocky horror.

which, looking back, was probably the correct spiritual preparation. rocky horror is basically a training video for hash events: weird outfits, questionable decisions, too much sexual energy in one room, and everyone singing at a volume that suggests nobody has health insurance.

by friday afternoon, i made it to wowo’s house. i was kind of stoned and nervous-excited, which is its own little chemical cocktail. i could feel the weekend coming before it got there. the air had that pre-chaos buzz, like the story was already standing outside with muddy shoes waiting to be let in.

wowo’s house became base camp. hashers arrived. drinks appeared. the social engine started grinding to life.

and then, because the universe loves a subplot, there was chewy.

🎧 the chewy thing

i am trying to be honest with myself about chewy without turning every interaction into a forensic investigation.

i like him. he turned me down. he did it kindly. and somehow that made the whole thing harder.

because cruelty gives you a clean edge. kindness leaves warmth behind.

we have been sharing music, and i gave him the playlist that gets me through my days. the one he called emo as hell the first time he heard it, then saved and followed anyway.

i know that does not mean romance. i know spotify is not an oracle. i know a playlist is not a proposal written in sad guitar chords.

but it still mattered.

not because it meant everything, but because it meant something. and i am trying to learn how to let something be something without needing it to become everything.

that might be the real emotional assignment here.

not getting him. not proving anything. just learning how to care without grabbing.

i do not know how to love small, but maybe i can learn how to love steady.

🖤 saturday: the clipboard became cursed

saturday was supposed to be the big day. circle-up at 11. trails rolling. attendance happening. my role clear and manageable.

except, spoiler alert: i pre-gamed too hard.

and that is on me.

attendance got messy. wowo had to take over. i hate that. i wanted to help, not make anything harder, and i do feel bad that i dropped the ball. i apologized to orange/mateo because he deserved that. not some dramatic, self-punishing confession. just accountability.

i said i owed him an apology. i said i pre-gamed too hard and dropped the ball. i said it was on me. because it was.

that part sucks, but it is also survivable.

i am allowed to admit i messed up without turning myself into a public sacrifice.

🌀 batsy, anxiety, and the smothering thing

separate from the attendance mess, batsy was struggling.

his anxiety was through the roof, and i ended up back home early saturday morning because he could not handle me being gone. before that, he showed up at wowo’s while i was trying to socialize, and i snapped.

i am not proud of snapping.

but i also understand why it happened.

because i need space. i need room to connect with other people. i need to exist as my own person without feeling like someone else’s anxiety gets to become my leash.

we are poly. that means space matters. trust matters. independence matters.

i can love someone and still need air.

i can care that he is struggling and still refuse to be controlled by that struggle.

those two things can be true at the same time, even if they do not sit neatly beside each other.

later, batsy tapped out after the sixth trail. apparently he almost did not make it out of the reedy river and blew out his knee. so that became its own whole thing.

because of course it did.

this weekend did not have a plot. it had side quests.

🍕 the food i did not get to eat

at some point, i took too many gummies and fell asleep at wowo’s house for four hours.

missed the pizza dinner.

tragic.

then punchy picked me up to take me to my car, except my emergency brake decided it was going to be a dramatic little bastard and refuse to unclench.

eventually, i got home, only to have to turn around and drive out to haywood for midnight chicken.

which i did not get to eat.

i need that noted for the historical record.

i went to midnight chicken and did not get midnight chicken.

that is not a meal. that is betrayal with headlights.

🚬 small trail relics

chewy gave me his second-to-last cigarette.

i do not need to make that mean anything huge.

but i can let it be what it was: a small kindness in the middle of a long, wet, chaotic night.

a little trail relic. a little smoke offering. a tiny human thing.

and johnson in johnson drove me back to town.

damn, he is hot.

also, he talked to me the whole way, which is dangerous because apparently my type is now “conversational while driving.” unexpected development. someone alert the committee.

🍳 the eggs in my fridge

somehow, we ended up with all the breakfast eggs in our fridge.

which means at some point hashers were going to be in my house, because apparently even when i leave the chaos, the chaos knows my address.

but by the time i got home, i was done.

my socks were damp. i had gummies in my pocket. i was exhausted down to my bones. and i had earned a decent night’s sleep.

not a perfect weekend. not a graceful weekend. not a weekend where i handled every single thing exactly right.

but a weekend i survived.

💙 what i am taking from it

i learned that i need better limits with pre-gaming when i have responsibilities.

i learned that apologizing directly feels better than spiraling privately.

i learned that wowo can take over when i need to step out, and the world does not burst into flames.

i learned that batsy’s anxiety is real, but so is my need for space.

i learned that my feelings for chewy are still there, but i do not have to hand them the steering wheel.

i learned that i can care deeply and still choose not to say every single thing in my chest.

i learned that sometimes the healthiest thing is to worry about my damn self.

and maybe that is the real post-hash lesson hiding under the damp socks and bad decisions:

i do not have to solve every person. i do not have to explain every feeling. i do not have to chase every thread. i do not have to be perfect to be accountable.

i can mess up, apologize, sleep, hydrate, and try again.

🐇 final field note

24 hour hash was exactly what i thought it would be.

chaos. rain. weed. music. drama. missed pizza. midnight chicken betrayal. a cursed emergency brake. a blown-out knee. a second-to-last cigarette. hot car conversation. eggs in my fridge.

and me.

the attendance banshee. clipboard goblin. cobalt blue chaos creature. trying her best. occasionally failing. still showing up.

i lived.

barely.

but i lived. 🖤📋🌧️

[theseventeenopentabs]

🌙💙 Thursday Night Check-In

Countdown to 24 Hour Hash: Attendance Banshee Edition

Time: 9:45 PM-ish Mood: excited, nervous, stoned-adjacent, emotionally supervised by a clipboard Color of the night: cobalt blue 💙 Current assignment: stay grounded, take names, do not decode men under field conditions

📋 The Setup: Chaos Is Loading…

Saturday morning at 11 AM, we circle up.

Twelve trails. Roughly sixty-six hashers. A whole weekend of beer, sweat, shiggy, bad decisions, good stories, and whatever fresh nonsense the universe decides to throw into the cooler.

And somehow, I feel ready.

I have my clipboard. I have my list. I have my highlighter. I have my spot.

I am not in charge of gimmies. I am not responsible for everybody’s choices. I am not the keeper of everyone’s emotional support beer.

I am roll call.

I am the one with the names. Orange. Chewy. Bat Ass. Everybody better be where they’re supposed to be, because the Attendance Banshee is awake and mildly toasted.

💙 My Weekend Uniform

Cobalt blue tank top. Boozy Bunny on the front. Black yoga shorts. Brown-black pigtails. Glasses. Phone in my pocket. Headphones going. Music just loud enough to make my tail wag.

No overthinking. No chasing. No spiraling in the parking lot like a haunted Roomba.

Just vibes, names, smoke, music, and one very determined little clipboard goblin.

I got this.

🍻 Wowo’s House & The Wingman Situation

Tomorrow night, I’m staying at Wowo’s with a bunch of out-of-town hashers.

That alone sounds like the beginning of a sitcom episode nobody’s mother should watch.

Wowo, apparently, has decided to live through me vicariously and has aimed Lt. Dayum in my general direction like some kind of beer bitch Cupid.

Which is funny.

It is ridiculous.

It is also not my assignment.

I am not going into this weekend expecting anything from men. I am not walking into Wowo’s like I’m reporting for romantic duty. Nobody handed me a mating quest, and if they did, I misplaced the paperwork.

If something is fun, it can be fun. If nothing happens, nothing happens. If everybody is disappointed, they can take that up with the complaint department, which is currently closed due to weed and vibes.

🎧 The Chewie Thing

And then there is Chewie.

I need to be honest about that, because pretending I don’t feel things has never actually made me feel less. It just makes the feelings grow teeth in the dark.

I still like him.

I know he turned me down. I know we are not going to be together. I know friendship is the thing I have to learn here.

But the way he turned me down was kind, and that made it harder in a weird way. If he had been cruel, I could have shoved the feeling away with both hands. But kindness lingers. Kindness leaves warmth behind. Kindness makes the heart stupid and hopeful, even when the brain is holding a clipboard screaming, “Ma’am, this is not evidence.”

We’ve been sharing music.

That matters to me.

I gave him my go-to playlist, the one that gets me through each day. The one he called emo as hell the first time he heard it. And yet he saved it. Followed it.

I am not going to turn that into a romance theory. I am not going to build a shrine out of Spotify data. I am not going to make a shared playlist into a prophecy.

But I also don’t have to pretend it means nothing.

It means something.

Maybe it means trust. Maybe it means friendship. Maybe it means he wants access to something that matters to me. Maybe it just means the music is good.

That can be enough for tonight.

🖤 Emotional Regulation Spell

I struggle with this.

I know I do.

Platonic and romantic get tangled up in me because I do not know how to love small. My heart does not sip. It chugs. It does not knock politely. It kicks the door open wearing glitter boots and carrying a lighter.

But I am trying something different.

With Chewie, I am trying to care without grabbing. I am trying to be present without needing proof. I am trying to let friendship be friendship, even if my feelings are louder than I want them to be.

That does not mean I failed.

It means I am practicing.

And this weekend, practice looks like this:

💙 Stay in my designated spots. 📋 Do roll call. 🎧 Keep music in my ears. 🌿 Stay calm. 🍻 Laugh when things get stupid. 🚫 Do not decode every tiny interaction. 🖤 Let Chewie exist without making him responsible for my heart. ✨ Let myself have fun anyway.

🌲 What I Want From This Weekend

I want to laugh.

I want to be useful.

I want to see the chaos and not become the chaos.

I want to remember that I can care about people without turning them into my emotional weather system.

I want to be soft without being swallowed.

I want to be wanted someday, yes. But I do not have to hunt for evidence of that every time someone is kind to me.

This weekend, I am not chasing.

I am planted.

I am posted up.

I am the roll call goblin in the cobalt blue tank with Boozy Bunny on my chest, smoke in the air, music in my ears, and names on my clipboard.

🐇 Final Thought Before The Madness

The next couple of days are going to be chaos incarnate.

But I can do chaos.

I was built in it. Seasoned by it. Possibly lightly marinated in it.

I do not have to be perfect this weekend. I do not have to be calm every second. I do not have to know what everything means.

I just have to show up.

Take names. Stay grounded. Trust myself. Let the music play.

I got this. 💙📋🎧

[theseventeenopentabs]

🌪️ Chaos, Creation, and Not Settling for Less 🎨🔥💔

Everything is happening at once.

Not in a poetic “life is full” kind of way. More like… someone shook the snow globe and forgot to set it down.

Golden Doodle blew up his own life. Cheated. With me. With ML. And instead of handling it like an adult, he just… dipped. Stepped away from the 24-hour hash like that somehow cleans it up. Like disappearing is the same thing as accountability.

And now there’s fallout everywhere.

People getting dragged into it. People picking up responsibilities he abandoned. An event that was supposed to be fun turning into something stressful because someone couldn’t own their own choices.

And I’m over it.

I said what I needed to say. I’m not revisiting it. I’m not arguing it. If it comes up again, I walk away. Simple as that.

But that’s just one piece of it.

Because while all of that is happening, I’m also looking at my own life and realizing something that’s been sitting quietly under the surface for a while now:

I don’t have someone who is mine.

Batsy is mine, yes. But he has Skyrim. He has another person sharing that space. And I didn’t think it bothered me as much as it does, but it does. Not in a jealous, take-it-away kind of way. Just in a very clear, very grounded:

“I want that too.”

I want someone who chooses me directly. Not as part of a structure. Not as an extension of someone else. Just… me.

And I’m tired of pretending I’m okay without it.

So yeah. I made the application.

It’s funny. It’s chaotic. It’s very me.

But it’s also real.

It’s me saying I’m done waiting quietly. Done hoping something just falls into place. If someone wants to step into my life, they can do it with intention.

Otherwise, I’m not chasing it.

And in the middle of all of this…

I’m still creating.

That might be the wildest part.

Because I could’ve shut down. I could’ve spiraled. I could’ve let all of this noise drown everything else out.

But instead?

I’m designing patches.

I’m building ideas, turning jokes into actual designs, creating things that people are going to wear, vote on, laugh about. I’m literally taking chaos and turning it into something tangible. Something fun. Something mine.

And then there’s my writing.

My world.

The Infernal Chain is still there, waiting for me. Not in a demanding way, not in a “you’re behind” way. Just… steady. Like a place I can step into when everything else gets too loud.

Cassie is still there. Hollow is still there. All of it is still alive and breathing and waiting for me to come back and keep going.

And honestly?

That might be the thing holding me together right now.

Because no matter how messy real life gets, I have something that is entirely mine. A world I’m building from nothing. A story that only exists because I’m creating it.

That matters.

More than I think I give it credit for sometimes.

So yeah. Life is chaotic right now.

People are disappointing. Dynamics are shifting. I’m realizing things about myself that I can’t ignore anymore.

But I’m also…

Creating. Building. Refusing to settle.

And maybe that’s what this phase is actually about.

Not everything falling apart.

But everything rearranging into something that actually fits me better.

Even if it’s uncomfortable as hell while it’s happening.

I didn’t break.

I created instead.

And I think that says everything.

[theseventeenopentabs]

[theseventeenopentabs]

[theseventeenopentabs]

🌿 Tadpole’s Tavern Chronicles: Ink, Kudzu, and a Mind That Won’t Sit Still 🌙✨

Hey you… yeah, you. The one reading this like you just stumbled into my brain uninvited. Pull up a chair. 🍷

It’s been… a lot. Not bad. Not good. Just a lot—like trying to drink from a firehose made of ideas, emotions, and late-night realizations that hit a little too hard.

🎨 The World Is Getting Louder (In a Good Way… I Think?)

I’ve been living inside my own head more than usual lately—but not in that quiet, empty way. More like… a crowded, electric storm.

Maccaby is breathing now. Not just existing. Not just background noise.

I can see it.

The kudzu isn’t just a plant anymore—it’s a presence. It watches. It waits. It remembers things I haven’t even written yet. 🌿 And the demons? Oh, they’re not distant, abstract monsters anymore. They’re sitting on sidewalks. Drinking coffee. Existing right under the surface like secrets that learned how to smile.

That realization? Yeah… it messed me up a little. In the best way.

🖤 Cassie, Hollow, and the Pull of the Unseen

Cassie’s becoming something deeper than I expected.

There’s this… quiet gravity to her. Like she’s always standing on the edge of something she doesn’t fully understand—but refuses to step away from.

And Hollow…

God.

There’s something about him that feels inevitable. Not safe. Not gentle. But honest in a way that cuts clean.

And I keep circling this idea: Maybe it’s easier for her to connect to him because he’s already gone. Already broken in the way she’s becoming.

And that thought? It lingers. Like smoke that doesn’t quite leave your lungs.

🎭 Micah (…yeah, him)

Let’s talk about the one I love to hate.

Micah feels too real lately.

Not in a fun, fictional way— In a “I know exactly how someone like this exists in the real world” kind of way.

He’s warmth without comfort. Familiar without safety.

And the worst part?

Cassie never senses danger from him. Not once.

That bothers me. Deeply.

Because sometimes the scariest thing isn’t the monster in the dark— It’s the one standing in the light, smiling like they belong there. 🕯️

📚 The Writer Spiral™️

I’ve been juggling a thousand things at once:

Building realms that feel like living ecosystems

Refining characters who refuse to stay simple

Trying to stay focused on Book One while my brain is already sprinting to Book Eight 🏃‍♀️💨

Setting up my tablet (which, by the way, is slowly becoming my sacred little creative altar ✨)

And somewhere in all of that… I’m realizing something important:

I don’t just write this world. I live in it.

🌙 Where I’m At (Emotionally, Spiritually, Creatively)

I feel… charged.

Like something is waking up in me creatively that’s been waiting for the right story to latch onto.

There’s this hum under everything lately— Like I’m on the edge of something bigger than I can fully see yet.

And yeah, it’s overwhelming sometimes.

But it’s also… kind of beautiful.

🍃 Final Thoughts Before I Disappear Back Into the Kudzu

If you’ve ever felt like your ideas are too big, too messy, too alive to control…

Same.

But maybe that’s not something to fight.

Maybe that’s the point.

Maybe the chaos is the doorway. 🚪✨

Alright. That’s enough vulnerability for one night. I’ve got demons to wrangle and a story that refuses to sit still.

See you in the next spiral. 🖤🌿

[theseventeenopentabs]

The Night My Characters Stopped Asking Permission 🖤🔥

There’s this thing no one really tells you about writing…

At some point, it stops being you.

Like… you start out thinking you’re in control. You build the world, you name the people, you decide what happens. You’re the god of it, right?

Wrong. 😌

Because somewhere between the first draft and the moment your chest tightens while you’re typing, they stop listening.

And lately?

Mine have been doing whatever the hell they want. 💀

I sat down thinking I was writing one thing…

And suddenly I’m in a car in the middle of a storm 🌧️ Windows fogged. Tension thick enough to choke on. Two people who should not be touching each other…

And they do anyway.

Not because I told them to.

Because they needed to.

And then just when I thought I understood the scene—

Cassie says the wrong name.

And everything breaks. 🫠

Not gently. Not dramatically. Just… wrong.

Like biting into something that looks sweet and realizing it’s rotten.

And that’s when I knew:

This story isn’t about what happens.

It’s about what feels right vs what is right… and how dangerous that difference is.

Because here’s the truth I’m starting to realize:

✨ You can’t force chemistry ✨ You can’t fake connection ✨ And you definitely can’t control who your characters belong to

And yeah… that word matters.

Because Cassie?

She doesn’t belong to Micah. She never did.

And the moment she realizes that?

It hurts.

Like physically hurts.

Like something inside her is rejecting the wrong reality.

And then she goes home…

Rain still falling 🌧️ Fairy lights glowing ✨ Heart still racing…

And she calls for the one name that doesn’t hurt.

That’s when it clicked for me.

I’m not writing a love triangle.

I’m writing gravity.

And the scariest part?

Micah doesn’t know.

Not really.

He thinks he’s getting closer.

He thinks he’s winning.

And I’m sitting here like—

oh baby… you already lost. 🖤

Writing this story feels like holding something alive.

Something that shifts when I look at it too long.

Something that refuses to stay where I put it.

And honestly?

I wouldn’t change it for anything.

Because if it doesn’t scare me a little…

If it doesn’t make me stop and go “what the hell just happened?” 😳

Then I’m not doing it right.

Anyway.

That’s where my head is tonight.

Storms, bad decisions, wrong names, and the kind of connection you don’t get to walk away from.

You know… normal things. 😌🔥

[theseventeenopentabs]

soft nights, loud thoughts 🌙💭✨

it’s one of those nights again.

the kind where everything is quiet… but my brain refuses to follow the rules.

i’m sitting here in tadpole’s, wrapped in soft colors like i tried to dress myself into calm — pale blue, pale pink, like maybe if i look gentle enough the world will feel that way too 🌸🌊

hair still damp. unbrushed. glasses on. strong medicine playing in the background like a heartbeat i’m not really listening to.

and me?

i’m just… here.

thinking about people. about moments. about looks that might mean something… or might mean nothing at all.

👁️ those damn blue eyes 🫀 the way my brain keeps replaying it 🌪️ the spiral of “what does it mean” vs “it probably means nothing”

and somewhere in the middle of all that…

there’s this quieter feeling.

not chaos. not obsession.

just—

“i wish someone was here with me.”

not even in some big, dramatic way. not romance. not anything complicated.

just someone to sit next to me. pass something back and forth. exist in the same little bubble of smoke and silence.

just… company.

it’s weird, the way my brain works.

someone is nice to me and instead of just letting it be nice, i start trying to decode it like it’s written in some language i was never taught 📜🔍

like kindness has to mean something more. like there’s always a cost. like i have to figure it out before i’m allowed to feel it.

and maybe that says more about where i’ve been than where i am.

but here’s the thing i’m trying to hold onto tonight:

✨ maybe not everything is a puzzle ✨ maybe not every look is a promise ✨ maybe not every connection is meant to become something bigger

maybe some things are just…

real for a moment.

and that’s enough.

so yeah.

i’m here. a little high. a little lonely. a little too aware of everything all at once.

watching the night press itself against the windows. feeling things i don’t quite have names for yet.

and quietly wishing—

💭 i had someone to smoke with.

not forever. not even tomorrow.

just… tonight.

🌙💨