Someone who doesn't know how to describe herself, is always struggling with debilitating depression, and won't stop hanging onto the hope that happy endings are possible.
(The title is the short version, and here's a link to donate via paypal. Read on for the full version and/or more ways to donate.)
Today, which is August 3rd for the benefit of those of you in markedly different time zones from me, is my birthday, so it seems like a good day to point out that I'm not dead yet.
To answer the perennial question: none of my stories have been cancelled and I do still intend to finish all of them. Intentions don't count for all that much, though, especially when my depression has been as bad as it's been.
Living is like drowning. At least I think it is. I've never actually been drowning. Unless I have, but I've lost it in the haze that is my memories.
The list started after someone quoted the sentence:
Single-word titles have to work exceptionally hard to stand out.
which happens to be from a post by Dave Bryant. What follows is inspired by the one sentence in isolation, not the whole post from whence it came.
I shall now propose fics with single word titles. Why? No good reason.
(For the story of what happened, go to the previous post.)
Provided nothing unexpected happens, Chloe will recover, which is great, and the final total for the cost of her care will be $7,454.11 to $9,702.30, which is less great.
I took her in because her owner was going to put her down if I didn't. That's seriously how it happened. I was given a choice: either I let her stay at my house, or the dog is being put down. No shelter (which would probably lead to her being put down but might not) no, "I'm going to call other people if you say, 'No,'", just that I take the dog, or the dog dies.
I live a fucked up life. Let it be known.
So it was that Chloe came to live here.
Figured that I'd check in. Things are bad. Things have always been bad. Things had already been notably bad for six months before I became a member here. They've only gotten worse since then.
At this point the best I can say about where I'm at is, "I'm not suicidal yet," which isn't nearly as positive as it sounds because in days gone by I would have never imagined it might be necessary to tack a "yet" onto the end of the sentence, and now I feel it is.
Last Tuesday (so a week ago tomorrow) my sister got run over by her own truck. The short version is that her three year old put the truck in neutral. I don't have all the details of the long version.
[About to describe injuries. Not in any gory detail, or anything, but if you're squeamish you might want to steer clear anyway.]
The Silver Spoon part of Fractured Friendship is a good solid half of why I'm even writing the story. Silver Spoon doesn't appear in Fractured Friendship yet. She won't until, at least, Chapter Four. If that. Even then it'll probably take a while for the role she's playing to become apparent.
Story time. True story instead of amazing technicolor dream teenager story, unfortunately.
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