Once Upon a Time Emily Dickinson…


I’m not saying this is a *good* thing I’ve written…I’m saying it’s a thing I’ve written.

Did anyone else have a super awkward DeviantArt phase?

I, for one, am super grateful that Facebook was not a thing when I was a teenager.

Oh, the bad poetry that my followers would have had to endure!

I share, not because it’s good, but sometimes it’s interesting to look back from where we came from and remember that we used to do things that we may not do anymore.

So below, I present…

Once Upon a Time Emily Dickinson

(I was also in a super awkward title phase inspired by listening to too much Fall Out Boy and Panic! At the Disco…Also, I think it’s only Emily Dickinson because it’s kind of dark and capitalizes wantonly with no regard for standard grammatical practices.)


The maiden in Black
Knows nothing of the sun.
Her world is a winding road
Of colorless despair
And rain.
A desolate valley of shadows….
Her eyes have never stopped leaking
Her mouth has never
Its expression
Only twists and pouts
Lips drawn into thin lines
He watches from below
Why does a young girl
Take on this visage
Of Horror?
She is the epitome of Darkness
And she is the love of
Its Lord.
The Light disturbs her
It is her reminder
That she is Dark
And she doesn’t understand it
For Light is the absence of none
And Dark is the presence of all.
Her rhythm beats slow
An ancient heart.
Death visits her
Every night
Cloaked in the Moon and the Stars.
Who knew that Death could love?
Death steals her soul
Piece by piece
She becomes his
But she is not forced
For she is Willing.
Bit by bit
Becoming as black
As day and the clouded Midnight Sky
All innocent Light is stripped
A Fallen Angel becomes her
Content where she lay.
Her eyes know nothing
Of rainbows
Her feet know nothing
Of sand.
Her soul knows nothing
Of pastel, soft shades.
Death will be her only visitor.
He has taught her well.
She will cherish his love above all
And know nothing
Beyond her world.
The maiden in Black
Shrouds her eyes
And covers her head
To the cascade of Life
That bypasses her.
One day she might Die
All over again
And real Love.
A cold night that will be
In Death’s lonely bed…

Nonsense and Shenanigans…


I’ve had this blog for awhile, but I haven’t done much with. I’m going to try and change it in this year of promise, of new-newness. I figured I’d start by making a few introductions…

This is me(drawing to scale):



My eyebrow game needs work, but my braid game is fierce 


I turned 30 awhile ago, and I didn’t appreciate it one bit. I’m a nonprofit professional, which mostly means that I do things with numbers and people pretend to be impressed. My favorite color is pink and my favorite drink is coffee. I thought for a brief moment in my 20s that I wanted to be an alcoholic, but then I realized that coffee has the same effect without the social stigma.

I have a lot of opinions on a lot of things, but if I tell you everything now, you’ll have no reason to read later.

I fancy myself wise in some areas, and a complete clueless asshole in others. I’m a grade A hermit and I like to do hermit-y things. I enjoy reading, writing, video games, and brewing alchemical potions that may one day bring life to the dead.

This here is my Woopsies.


We’ve been hanging out for almost four years now.

My mom asked me yesterday how was it that we still get along?  I was a little surprised by the question, but I guess in her experience, four years is around the time you start getting really annoyed at each other. My best guess is that we still get along because of our mutual love of pizza, Bioware games, crushing each other in board games, and being crazy cat ladies.

Speaking of, we have two wonderful cats, which are depicted below:


The black one is the youngest. His name is Leonard Tuvok Spock. Don’t ask me how a cat got named after a Vulcan. He picked it. He is burdened with glorious purpose and gifted with magic. He has significantly more energy than our girl cat Tribbles. This sometimes leads to nonsense.


Sadly for Lenny, Tribbles never really wants to be a wizard. She is occasionally intrigued by dice, but only from afar. It’s tough being a Vulcan Kitty in an Orc Kitty’s world.

Oh yeah. I like orcs. Like a lot. Way more than any one person has a right to.


I just watched this video and, because I’m cheesy, I started crying. However, I really like this idea.

Every relationship I’ve ever been in, I’ve loved. I don’t love easily, and when I find someone that I click with, I give myself entirely over to it. This has hurt me greatly in the past, but it has also forged what has become of me today…

Who I loved I met later in my relationship cycle. When I first met him, I was shocked by how much we had in common and how beautiful he was on the inside. I had never connected with someone so deeply, and it was probably the first truly soulful love I’d ever had. It touched me deep inside. It was the first time I ever loved someone for their heart as much for the person they were on the outside. It opened my eyes to a different side of love that made me realize I could love with my heart as much as my body.

What  I loved was a boy I knew in highschool. He was tall and handsome and I thought we were soulmates. Everything between us seemed to be aligned, and he was my best friend for a long time. I loved the long nights we spent just talking and the adventures we took together. It, like the video says about his young love, was exciting and raw. Everything I was feeling was passionate to the point of hurting.

Where I loved was someone else I knew as a teenager. I loved him because of the warm summer nights we spent. I loved him because he smelled of honeysuckles and boy. He was a giant field in the middle of nowhere. He was jumping off logs into the river. He was everything stupid and reckless and was life exactly as it should have been.

When I loved was when I didn’t feel loved by anything. He found me at a point in my life where the message I had given myself  was I couldn’t be lovable. He opened me back up the an idea that I didn’t think ever possible. He found me at exactly the right moment that I needed him. He propelled me forward to do things that I never would have alone, and turned my life into a completely different and crazy direction.

Why I loved was just as much as why I hurt. For a long time, the two were not mutually exclusive. But why I loved was because I had so much energy, so much passion that just needed a place to go. Why I loved was because it made no sense, and that’s what I needed at the time. Why was a boy that I had known for a long time before we ended up being together. He pushed me into maturity, and the main reason WHY I loved him was because I needed to at that moment in time, to even be able to get to this moment in time.

And that brings us to “The Last”

While I wish I knew with 100% certain that boyfriend was going to be “The Last”, I do not know that. What I do know though is that he is the who, what, where, when, and why of how I love.

Who I love is his kind and generous nature…

What I love is his stability and loyalty to those he considers important…

Where I love is the warmth a genuine smile from him puts in me…

When I love him is when he doesn’t expect that I do…when he’s goofy or open to the point of vulnerability…

And why I love him is because he answers that question. He is the response I’ve been looking for.

Cthulhu Cooks: Holiday Edition! Lazy Hamantaschen!


Well hey there, readers! This evening marks the beginning of Purim! For those unfamiliar with this Jewish holiday, here’s the rundown:

The Book of Esther tells a story of how a mean, old nasty, vizier, named Haman,  wanted to destroy all Jewish people who lived in his kingdom.

I guess the King didn’t think much of wriping out an entire race because his reaction was pretty much, “Yeah, whatev’s.”

Haman decides to cast lots to determine which day he would carry this out. It’s too hard to plot that crap out. Genocide is a lot of work as it is.  Incidentally, lots were called ‘Purim’, and that’s where the holiday gets it’s name.

Well, a guy named Mordecai, who I’m pretty sure was super hot, discovers Haman’s plan. He tells it to the queen, Esther. Esther is Jewish, so she’s all, “Aw, hell no.” Through trickery and a couple of tasty banquets, Esther reveals that she is Jewish in front of everyone.

The King, who, I guess, never had this talk with his wife before,  was all, “WTF?!?” and decides to kill Haman instead. Poetic justice is served, as the King hangs Haman on the gallows he build for our sexy,sexy hero, Mordecai.

For the whole abridged story, check out the article on the Book of Esther on Wikipedia. If you’re really super curious, check out the Book of Esther itself.

Common observances on Purim include reading the Book of Esther, giving others food gifts, being charitable to the needy, and a festival meal! At this festive meal you are encouraged to dress up and make all sorts of noise, also get drunk. The holiday is sometimes known as “Jewish Halloween”, but there’s really not a whole lot of similarity outside the encouragement to wear costumes.

Tradition also includes making hamantaschen!!

These hamantaschen are meant to represent the fall of Haman, and either symbolize his ear or his hat, depending on who you ask. However, hamantaschen don’t have to be just for Purim! On days other than Purim, imagine they are Romulan ears and you’ve just saved the Enterprise from yet ANOTHER takeover. Go you! Carry that feeling with you, and you’ll be in the spirit of Purim!

TLDR: Haman tried to kill all the Jewish people in his kingdom. The Jews went, “LOL!!!!” We now eat cookies shaped like his ear/hat. Romulans suck!

Now that’s out of way, let’s get to the fun stuff! I am not much of a chef, which is why I have an Elder god that helps me bake. One of my biggest downfalls in baking is that I’m impatient, especially when I’m waiting for something as tasty as hamantaschen,

I want the recipe done yesterday! So my friend helped me come up with this recipe a few years ago and it has been my default hamantaschen recipe ever since.

Most Jewish grandmothers won’t agree with my method, but it gets the cookie out of the stove and into your mouth much faster!

So without further adieu, here is Cthulhu Cooks with the laziest hamantaschen recipe you will ever see!

Components of your Concoction:


  • Pre-made minion dough(it’s actually pie crust)
  • Whatever flavor pie filling/almond paste/shenangians you want to put in your hamantaschen.  Pictured are lemon curd and strawberry, but you can use whatever makes you happy!


  • Preheat your cooking contraption to 450°
  • Find a flat surface to work on and roll out your tasty minion dough.
  • Find a shapely container that will leave you with a tiny circle cut-out.

Elder gods don’t believe in things like cookie cutters…

  • Make as many cut outs as you want cookies.
  • Place on greased cookie pan and stop to make jokes about how you made a face in the dough.

“Look! He’s scared of me just like he should be! Bwa ha ha ha!”

  • Fill, but don’t over fill, with your filling of choice.
  • ImageDon’t be afraid to get creative!
  • Fold them into tri-corner hat shapes(or vaginas) by squeezing into a triangle shape.



“Adding blueberry to the lemon! It could come out green, and that is the color of me!”

  • Laugh as your roommates get increasingly pissed that they cannot eat the hamantaschen!

“Ha ha ha ha! Stupid kitten! You should have made the life choice to be an elder god instead of a kitten! Now your life is ruined!”

  • After all that is done, place your hamantaschen into your cooking contraption for approximately 10 minutes.
  • ImageEnjoy a beer while you wait! It’s Purim after all!


  • Take them out and let them cool!
  • No really, let them cool!
  • Don’t stick it into your mouth right away! That pie filling is hot!
  • Stop, stop, stop! I SAID LET IT COOL!
  • Dumb ass.
  • Share with friends and your grandma! Bask in glory as they are impressed by your lazy hamantaschen!

Rating: Fit for my tentacles!!

The End3

Still I Rise – Maya Angelou


You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

You Fade – Kathryn Dixon


You fade…
Like a bruise.

Like the ones your mouth left on my neck and shoulders with its lustful pressure.
Your teeth, which brought moments of bright pain/pleasure,
Are now bared in an artificial, animal smile.

Your lips, which parted to taste my skin like it was salvation,
Barely part now to speak to me.
You whispered my name like a prayer.
You screamed it like a curse.
You sighed it in contentment,
And now you won’t even speak it in passing.

Your hands, which half-playfully pulled my hair…
Now won’t pause to brush it from my face.

All these parts of you,
None more telling than your eyes.
Those new windows, which once let me pry…
Now have blinds drawn tight behind them,
Leaving only a pretty, shiny reflection-
A passing, glancing imitation-
Of the passion they once held
When they beheld

No color left to them but the muddy colors of
And possibly mistrust.

You fade…
Like a bruise.
Like the one you left on my mind with your brilliant conversation
And beautiful, rusty prose.
Like the many you left on my tongue…
Which now can speak nothing but trite and meaningless words,
Which now can barely remember the shapes
Of all the shimmering, liquid phrases it spoke to you
That seemed so important at the time.

You fade…
Like a bruise.
Once lover and friend,
Now barely one
And never the other again.