Burnt Sage & Blunt Truths

 I do not like this. I really, truly do not like this. I have been stuck in this house for nearly three weeks with limited money, no transportation freedom, and no meaningful relief from the grinding sameness of it all. I have watched Netflix until even Netflix seems concerned about me. I have made lists of things I cannot buy, places I cannot go, and plans I cannot put into motion. I have attempted to keep four cats from staging a furry reenactment of the fall of Rome. I have rearranged thoughts, counted days, stretched supplies, and tried to construct meal plans from whatever happens to be in the kitchen. Not What would I like to eat? Not What sounds good tonight? But What do we have, and how many meals can I force it to become? There is an enormous difference between those questions. At first, I thought I was simply bored. Then I realized boredom was the least of it. This is what happens when choice disappears. When you cannot get in the car and go somewhere because go...

I want a three-bedroom, three-bathroom house on an acre. That seems like a reasonable request. Three bedrooms for living, writing, and storing whatever the cats have decided belongs to them. Three bathrooms so nobody has to negotiate with Dakota through a closed door. An acre so I can step outside without learning the neighbor’s preferred brand of coffee through their kitchen window. In Arkansas, this is a house search. In Seattle, this is apparently a request to be adopted by a tech billionaire. As of August 2026, the median home sale price in Jonesboro was about $235,000 . In Seattle, it was about $874,000 . That’s roughly 3.7 times as much for the median home, before I’ve even had the audacity to ask for an acre. Those are citywide medians, not prices for identical houses. An acre in Seattle makes the comparison even more absurd. For a more relevant Arkansas example, a Jonesboro property listing describes a three-bedroom, three-bathroom house of more than 3,100 square feet on one ...

 I can overlook ugly carpet. I can paint over walls the color of old mustard. I can even live with a kitchen designed by someone who apparently hated both cooking and human movement. But if I pull up to a house and the neighbors are flying MAGA flags, I’m going to keep driving. People will say, “It’s just a flag.”  So were the Nazi flags, if you believe that logic. That is what flags are for. They tell you what someone wants you to know about them. A garden gnome tells me you enjoy whimsy. An Auburn football flag tells me you make questionable decisions on Sundays. A MAGA flag tells me something I would rather learn before signing a thirty-year mortgage. I’m not asking every neighbor to agree with me. I’ve lived among people with different politics all my life. We can disagree about taxes, road repairs, and whether the town needs another Dollar General. We can wave across the fence and complain together when the trash pickup is late. But I’m buying more than a roof and a patc...

There is something profoundly strange about opening my eyes and realizing I am no longer in the Pacific Northwest. Or, as I have called it more than once, the Pacific Northwets. I no longer wake beneath that soft gray ceiling that hangs over western Washington. There are no evergreens outside my window standing dark and watchful in the mist. No cool marine air sneaking through the cracks. No mountains lingering on the horizon, appearing only when the clouds decide we have earned the privilege of seeing them. Instead, I wake up in Arkansas. Arkansas, where the air has weight. Arkansas, where September apparently did not receive the memo that summer is supposed to be packing its bags. Arkansas, where the heat does not merely surround you—it climbs into your bra, sits down, and makes itself comfortable. And every morning, for the first few seconds after I wake up, my mind has not caught up with my body. I am still in Everett. I am still in the apartment where hummingbirds visited the balc...

I have arrived. Not gracefully. Not quietly. And certainly not with one of those perfectly curated photographs where I’m standing beside a “Welcome to Arkansas” sign with good hair, a clean car, and a caption about exciting new beginnings. I arrived tired. With pneumonia. Bone-deep, soul-deep, don’t-ask-me-to-make-another-decision tired. I arrived with boxes, cats, Mom, Dakota, receipts, road grime, stories I’m not quite ready to tell, and the lingering suspicion that somewhere between Washington and Arkansas I personally offended at least three gods of travel. But I arrived. And those may be the two most important words I have written in a very long time. I arrived. Leaving Wasn't the Hard Part People like to romanticize leaving. They talk about closing doors, starting new chapters, following your heart, and taking leaps of faith. That shit looks fantastic embroidered on a throw pillow. Actual leaving is uglier. Sometimes leaving means looking around at a life you w...

PEOPLE NEED TO STOP CHECKING OUT OF THE MORTAL PLANE!!! (except for that one orange dipshit) YES. THE MORTAL PLANE IS CURRENTLY CLOSED FOR DEPARTURES. (except for that one orange dipshit). Nobody else gets to fucking leave. The gates are shut. Charon is on mandatory PTO. The Valkyries have been sent home. Anubis has been informed there is a paperwork backlog. Elysium is at capacity. Because goddammit, Cam. There comes a point where grief stops arriving politely one loss at a time and starts feeling like somebody is kicking holes in the fabric of your world. And “I just saw you at Paganicon” is particularly cruel. My brain still has fresh evidence that you  existed . I saw you, I talked to you. I squished upon your person. YOU OCCUPIED SPACE IN MY WORLD and right now I'm being asked to comprehend a reality that contradicts that evidence. So yes. EVERYBODY STAY THE FUCK PUT. Attendance is mandatory. No early dismissal. No unauthorized astral fucking field trips. I've had ...

  A Witch Without a Plan If you know me, you know I always have a plan. Usually I have Plan A, Plan B, Plan C, three contingency plans, a backup contingency plan, and at least one option involving spite, duct tape, caffeine, and sheer fucking determination. Right now? I am officially a Witch without a plan. Mom and I came back from the Alaska trip (which was bought and paid for BEFORE the wreck), and I brought back the nastiest of viral infections. Still no word from the insurance. Or my attorney. It has been 239 days since the wreck on December 23rd . 239 days of doctors, pain, appointments, medical bills, physical limitations, paperwork, attorneys, insurance companies, and trying to put a life back together after somebody else's mistake blew a hole straight through ours. A month ago, we were told the settlement was coming. We planned around it. We made decisions based on it. FMLA, movers, packers, giving up the apartment, etc. We started preparing to move and finally get ourselve...