I think my grandma can outrun me at the moment, and that's sayin' something, 'cause she's been dead for seven years.

I can feel every. single. muscle. in my body right now.

Between shoveling, falling on my duff, and a particularly active bellydance class last night, I am woefully, woefully sore. Well, at least I know I'm still alive.

After watching this week's Lost, I felt compelled to make this post. It may be influenced by the miso crack I am having for lunch, and the brightly-colored roe on my California Roll. Anyway.

In Search Of: One Scottish Boyfriend

-- must have dark, wavy hair and pretty eyes
-- sexy accent is a prerequisite
-- looking good in a kilt is a definite bonus
-- must look good in collared shirts
-- better yet, must look good in no shirt at all
-- must like to sing when drunk
-- crazy psychic powers acceptable

Oh, and ( Spoiler!Collapse )

If sexy Scottish boyfriends are on back-order, I may be persuaded to take late-20's demon-hunters with a propensity to say "son of a bitch" really sexily, and who answer to the name of "Mr. Winchester."

That is all.

Via tamnonlinear: matociquala posts about expectations of grief.

But the great Lie of American literature is the epiphantic healing, the moment of crisis and catharsis that leaves us shaken but again whole. And of course that never happens in real life--a broken sword, perhaps, can be forged anew (and given a new name) but a broken life cannot.

Those scars are with you always, and it is a cruelty and a lie to pretend otherwise. Amputated limbs do not spontaneously regrow themselves, and learned trauma responses do not vanish in the morning light or the light of a new love. No one can save you but yourself.

Once you have been broken that severely--by war, by fire, by abuse, by loss--you will never be whole again.

This is not a message of hopelessness.

This is a message of hope.