A Morning of Love

This morning was a time for the books- a high quality morning of a day off for both Ricky and myself.

The sun gazed a cool, September overlook among the questionable neighborhood I live in.

YellowBelly’s chirps and melodies reverberated volumes throughout the apartment.

The GameCube ran Animal Crossing hours on end, killing any anxiety that might have been lingering.

Ricky rolled out of our king sized sleeperbefore I did around 1pm. I was greeted by the smell of pumpkin spice coffee and a loud, high-pitched “good morning!” From Ricky, my wonderful jubilant happy man. His gray trailer park boys shirt was blotched dark with dish water where he was halfway through washing the dishes.

I embraced his large, barrel chest clumsily, with a loud thud and a “Hibst!”

I used so much force he rocked back on his heels to keep himself from falling backwards.

I could hear YellowBelly chirping quietly under the navy silk sheet covering his cage- he was ready for his morning song from his mother, and so was the rest of the family.

I slowly slid off his sheet and he bounced off his swing, flitting from one place to the next. His chirping grew louder and louder in volume.

I greeted YellowBelly with my usual shrieking “Good MORNING! Good Mor-NING!” And he got really excited and started to lose his shit. He started to virbrado his chirps a bit. Ricky started laughing in delight in the background.

“Gooooooooood…. morning, good morning! I have to let you knoooooowwwwwwwww…….” I paused for a second. His chirping and fleeting never stopped.

“Good morning, good morning, to you! Wooooo! YellowBelly! It’s going to be a great fucking day!” I cheered, which is my usual song and chant.

Ricky stood in the kitchen, drinking in my cheerful songs energy. “Aw, hib..”

One of his knuckles were steady dripping Palmolive suds at his side while the other gripping pink around pumpkin spice coffee mug at his lips.

Raisin, our sticky-bald hairless cat, mewed loudly for my attention while posted up on the cat tree, her hip bones dancing from side to side. She has these curly tortellini ears that I have decided are little pesto listeners. She gets a tiny tiger half can of wet food mixed with salmon oil, ground up mussel for a joint supplement, and raw instinct food topper when we get up in the morning, sometimes the extras at dinner.

This is it- this is my tittle family at almost 29 years old, and what a fulfilling, childless family it is. I’m perfectly happy with the apartments company, and I wouldn’t wish it any different. Ricky instinctively knows how to make this house a home, and I have enough room in my heart to house everyone snug and warm,


Content and loved.

Ricky Edward Humerick, Raisin Aioli McGoo, and YellowBelly McGee. Eternally loved by their mother and partner.

I’ve made up my mind, from what I feel in my heart. Ricky is here to stay and he is family. He takes care of me when I’m sick and doesn’t judge, while working when I cannot to provide for us. He’s my hero, and while I put aside my doubts of being betrayed in the most heinous ways a long time ago, I can’t help but envision growing old together in our partnership and chemical relationship. I am utterly and genuinely (and safely) head over heels in love with this fine specimen of masculinity. He’s loyal and true. His heart beats for me, and he has also made up his mind for what he feels in his heart.

Plus we keep each other very happy. Very, very romantic moments fill our days, weeks, and months 🥰 it’s been a very wholesome 4 and some months together, but it feels like status quo for a lot longer. Oh how I love him…

A Visit with Lori

Yesterday I had to drag myself out of bed for another long, Ricky-less Sunday where he worked a double at the Subhouse. I had promised Lori that I would meet up with her in the mall and walk around, catch up, and people-watch, her favorite thing to do. The spoiled side of me didn’t want to go, given the fact that I didn’t have a dollar to my name and I’m usually not quite fond of getting fooled around with by the temptation of new Bath and Body Works scents and the smell of mall Chinese food.

And, while I started thinking of every excuse not to go, via my normal anti-social habits, I still decided to give Miss Lori a ring and plan to meet at Sbarros in the next hour.

Lori came strolling around the mall corner some 15 minutes late with a warm greeting and smoothie from Auntie Annie’s. I asked her where she would like to go first, and she said she was looking to get her nails done.

She meekly grabbed a pamphlet at the salon and started flipping through. An Asian woman working there yelled out at us that the prices were $2 more than listed on the menu.

“We could get it done together. It’ll be on me”

Like butter to my ears. She flashed that signature smile she ever-so enjoyed flashing so much when she’s conducted an act of kindness. I’ve seen it many differing unique times with many differing unique gifts.

We decided to get pedicures. I was excited to finally get the remnants of Colorstreet sticker off my toe tips and get new color. We went to the polish wall to pick our colors. I went with this gaudy bright yellow orange hue I only regret a little, only because they came out neon. I thought if I’m having a hard time spreading sunshine through my unstable disposition, I might as well try to spread it through my toes when I wear my gladiator sandals.

Lori said she was looking for a specific color of blue. After I suggested 3 or 4 different shades, she went with a pale pink, which almost blended in with her pale skin. told her it looked very 90’s business chic, which made her haunch one loud hearty chuckle, followed by “what makes you say that??”

See, Lori is very special company. Her open, non-judgemental ears have healing energy every time you open up. She’s quietly arrayed and attentive when you spill your guts to her, and prefers to think about the advice or empathy she’s going to give. And, while I always like to focus on healing others, I almost forgot how much lighter my heart feels after my Saturday evenings with Lori when she heals me.

While in the pedicure chairs, I kinda spilled my guts through my cat-patterned mask to her sitting next me. I told her about how I’ve been unstable and manic lately and I’m still adjusting to the social deprivation of not waitressing anymore. Of course she understood, like she always does. She lives on her own, and told me that it takes time adjusting to spending time with yourself, when Ricky isn’t home.

I showed her a picture of the Bipolar Beast painting I did a few days ago when I was manic. She said it looked like a Superwoman with fangs. I really like that interpretation- makes me feel more… worthy. Super. Heroic instead of defeated.

I wiggled my toes into the foam flip flops after the final top coat and hobbled over to the drying station. Lori followed close by after, and I scooted over to give her some room to stick her feet in the black light fan.

“Stephanie, would you like me to pray for you? Right now?” She flashed the most caring, almost maternal eyes as she looked over her glasses into my sight.

“Yes, Lori. Please, pray for me”

She meekly asked if I would mind if she touched my shoulder. In response, I grabbed her hand quickly with a gentle force. A burst of warm pink energy started to spread from her right fingertips to my left palm.

We bowed our heads and she began to speak to the Heavenly Father on my behalf.

And while she asked for blessings in an audible tone, she was sure to touch on nearly every aspect of my life. “Give Ricky strength and will to take care of me when I’m mentally ill. Give Raisin and YellowBelly long-lasting health to help me carry on. Give me the will let my happy jubilant self shine again”

“In Jesus name, Amen.”

I looked at her, with tears in my eyes. She smiled back a soft, caring grin. “Jesus loves and cares about you, even when you feel like no one else does.”

While I admit I am not a Christian woman, I was still greatly moved by the magic she conducted in her own language. Her inspiration never stops making an impact, nearly every Saturday. And I’m just starting to get to know her.

Before we parted ways, I reached out and hugged her for the first time. I left the mall with my aura morphed into a unique mix of pale 90’s business chic pink and gaudy neon yellow orange sunshine.


I remember when I was working at Donatos by the base during college in 2012. One particular night, a customer came to the counter while I was at the cut table. He looked to be in his late 20’s, early 30’s. I’m a little fuzzy, but I recall him wearing a military uniform, grasping a camouflage hat at his underarm with crossed arms.

“Hi there! How are you doing today?” I swerved through the swinging door to meet him at the front.

He lowered his forehead a little bit.

“I’m fine,”

Some customers seemed a little hostile, but he seemed to be fairly bothered by something.

After asking his name, I asked him if he wanted to pick up or eat there. He answered “ P-P-Piiiiiiiiii………. ppppppp-ppick it up.” His face distorted into a frustrated cluster. I had no reaction. His name was Andrew.

“a, uh, medium hand-taaaaaahhhhhh….” he sighed and averted his gaze to the tile under his feet. “Tah-tah-tah-tttttttttt-taaaaaah- tossed”

I allowed him to sound out the syllables without any interruption or suggestion. “Okay, so you want a medium hand tossed? What toppings would you like on that?”

“Pppppppp…. Peeeeehhh….” he stopped for a second. A vein popped out of his forehead as he shot daggers down at the floor. “Peh-ppppppppperonni”

“Good choice! How about some bread sticks or cinnamon twists on the side?”

He finally made eye contact with me for a second or two. I shot him the kindest eyes I could, with a wide smile and an inviting posture. He looked around a second and focused again on me. His frustration started to subside- in fact, I saw a grin start to curl on the side of his steady frown. “No thanks.”

“Alright Andrew, I have you down for a medium hand tossed pepperoni?”

I wanted to tell him that I understood his struggle, maybe not to the same degree because I didn’t have a speech impediment. But I do have Tourette’s, and around that time struggled with a very violent swing of the arm and a neck jerk tic. I managed to suppress it during this particular exchange- sometimes the urges to box my ear came and went.

“That’ll be 10.19! With a card?”

Not only did I want to empathize with this stranger I just met, but I wanted to empower him. I wanted to look him in the eye and tell him to NOT feel ashamed for what his brain cannot do, but to be thankful for what it does do properly. That his disability is NOT a personality flaw and should not be regarded as such, but treasured as a characteristic that built you into the person you are today.


It’s none of my business.

I handed him back his credit card slip. “Okay, if I can get your John Hancock right there,”

I thought about all the jokes my friends would crack up about my vicious right hook, which were meant to be in good spirits but got really old really quick.

I thought about those people who ridiculed me for it, those acquaintances with no patience for someone who accidentally tosses pencils, pens, paintbrushes, hairbrushes, and, at work, pepperonis with each hook. Those what-the-fuck glares, the stigma, being different.

I know it Andrew- and I know it well. And if i had the guts to have shared my healing energy with this suffering stranger, I would have, but it still was none of my business.

But I think my magic might have gotten through to him- he ended up tipping me a crisp $20 bill for my “G-gggguuuuu-gggg-good service”

Shine On

Earlier today mom tagged me in an article about Pink Floyd, which included a more in-depth perspective of how Syd Barrett’s “cheese slid off the cracker” when the band got famous. When was the last time I felt a spiritual movement while listening to Shine On You Crazy Diamond? I lashed out for the Bluetooth headphones immediately, and started the orchestral hum of the beginning of the five part piece.

I’ve had a connection with that piece since I put myself in Barrett’s place through my own mental illnesses and struggles with them. Although I did not partake in massive amounts of acid consumption, I did suffer side effects of too much psyche medication, a mistake I made while I had already lost my topper.

When Dave Gilmour struck those first four notes with precise thumb and pose, I felt chills spike down my spinal chord through the nerves in my crown.
And as the guitar crooned melodic condolences so sweet, I could feel my innocent ears rock back and forth, like laying empathized in baby’s comfiest crib.

Gilmour went on to start reciting lyrics, reading aloud my diary word for word, August 15, 2014. “Come on you raver, you seer of visions-
Come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!”
Just like Brian Beck yelled to me off key over the phone while I was in the mental hospital.

I thought about all those times my mental illnesses got in the way of functioning properly in society. When I was hallucinating, manic as hell while serving triple figure business people wines and hors d’oeuvres I couldn’t pronounce.

I thought about what it looked like under the surface, when I lost my conscious state of mind and dove underwater.

I thought about my current struggles. The struggles of the Syd Barrett’s around me.

Gilmour barked a loud SHIIIIIINE! Before the sax solo, so I set the question out there- how does this sick basket case like myself shine tonight?

I heard it loud and clear as any intuitive sixth sense would ring in the ear of a somewhat manic psychic soul would: “Quit Fucking around and paint something” a friendly reminder from Brian’s essence.

So this is what I came up with. Do I feel better? I still feel like laughing and crying at the same time

Bipolar Beast, 2020

DAI Roman Bust experience

An empty room of ancient Greek marbles, unguarded, and my permeable inspiration waiting to be molded. And it was shaped a bit that day, for when I glanced in the room I saw Him. Yes, Him with a capital H, because he was and never was human, nor a remake of human, but a standard of otherworldly orientation, he was, quite organic, VERY lifelike in size and stature, but still Greek stylized. Big nose and deep, hollow eyes. We stood face to face.

I took a glance left, then a quick look right. Left again. No one. That gaze mimicked every other Greek marble, yes, but His was different; the expression and lowset brow bones. dita sulla pelle di pietra. I stroked it and Jet black lightning struck down my spine- 5 layers of chills outlined goosebumps on my arms.

A glance to the left.

My eyes worked over the details of his ears. La sua testa. Maxilla. Zygomatic arch. Curious, gentle hands following.

A glance to the right.

He was venturing into something so deep in myself I never knew existed, undiscovered until now. Hollowed pupils and parted lips. I cocked my head and leaned in closer- yet another blast of romance and emotion. Pride and humiliation at the same time. I was so close, I had expected that kissing scent, like that smell when you’re kissing someone, but of course it wasn’t there. 
My heart drooped at this, and it was quite amusing.

I felt relieved. Revived in this ancient art work. I was in love, not with Him himself, but what he helped me see. Like I was turned inside out and all the muck spread on the spotless tiles.

But I was discovered. “… uhhh, Steph, what are you doing?” Lydia was standing there for a while.

Sketches to music






So I’ve been struggling with art a little bit lately, and I wanted to utilize my subconscious, intuition and my imagination all at the same time. These are short, 3-5 minute sketches made while listening to experimental music. In other words, this is what the music looks like in my head. A Youtube link to the corresponding song is posted after the picture, none of which I own.Image

Haunted Hotel Beat- Jaytram


False Astronomy- Mister Lies

Take Time- Low Leaf

Alarma- Machinedrum

Too Long at the Fair- Teebs

Signs and Wonders- Kona Triangle

Soarin’- Sinitus Tempo

Bass Spalls- Heyoka
And We Gonna (Samiyam Chopsticks Remix)- Shigeto

My Heart

ImageMy heart is but a fishing bobber:
Pallid and crimson, split in color.
When casted from pole, to sea, or lake
or pond, perhaps. 
Floating uneasy atop the drift, 
To billow in ripple; bobbing over forgotten wakes.

To reel it in would be a lost cause
Because one would save a thing if it were drowning
But for what? For what?
To save my bobber heart from drowning? Why?


I can pinpoint the date I lost my Christian faith

April 3, 2009
North Carolina, six more hours to go
     Death is inevitable.
     I repeat this in my head whenever I’m travelling. My weight is being moved at seventy a mile. I’m not home; I’m not on my land. 
     Yet, what is staying on my land uncomfortable comfort zone compared to the pride of experience and the gain of knowledge? Balance? Status quo? What is having land if your land isn’t blessed?
     Moving only makes sense for someone who is Godless: seeking for a spiritual power and failing, then immaturely crying over the inability to find what they once had. Those who are foreign to this social belonging shouldn’t be. The grass doesn’t grow long enough for the cows to feed without the sun. The heart doesn’t grow warm enough to house the Holy Spirit without those doubts. Right?
     I’ve always been a young woman of pride- pride for my work and pride for my home. Pride houses my comfort, but could my pride of knowing persist somewhere outside of my land? My comfort zone? My state?
     Nothing would ever happen if my ultimate truths changed. If I expand my knowledge and my mind, the sun will wash over the rolling hills as it always has. The blades of grass will grow taller. The cows would be grazing.
     If nature’s course would take my life, nothing would happen. The beauty would still glisten over the Carolinas.
     And, if I would perish in accepted reasonings, my land would still saturate in the Holy Spirit I have been unable to accept for some years. My roof would still be shrouded in peaceful benedictions. My windows- glazed in echoes of prayer. 
     If I would die, my pride of knowing the answer to the ultimate question would fall with me. 
     That’s why I can’t navigate what isn’t my fault. My hands cannot labor what isn’t learned and what isn’t learnable. My heart can’t change its facts as my mind does everyday; Like it ever was created to do so. 
     I justified this by making up my mind and deciding it was my fault. I must have did something to change my thinking patterns. Having an answer should erase the scribbles of other opportunities and reasons why. Jesus, I’m thinking like a seven year old. 
     If my pride and spirituality can balance each other out one day, I can make anywhere my home. I can be at peace with my new knowledge and experiences as well as moving on from my young life and being content with not knowing all the answers to life’s questions. I’ll start growing a confidence tree for my major life decisions. I’ll stop thinking like a seven year old. I’ll finally move on.

December 15, 2008

The final day the Earth stood still
Illuminated shine, 
A Priestess then had told the shrill,
The shrieking paradigm;

“For you hath sinned against God’s will
And punish you he must!”
“Confess! Confess! Immoral thrills
and unforgotten lust!”

“Now is time!” she preached to them,
“So climb into my hands!”
As if she knew what wrath would stem
In these, his restless lands

So in they climbed, their feet and palms
Were hanging off the side;
So quietly they read their psalms
And followed unknown guide

So smart the people must have lived
To have her fail and still forgive

%d bloggers like this: