Ode to a great piece that didn’t get the love it deserved.

Sometimes, a piece drops into my visual spectrum on the Stackian rhythm, and I am absolutely delighted with it while wondering why it’s taken me since June of this year to see it at all.

It’s totally my jam. Every sentence had me wondering if I was related to this person in a familial way, or if I just lucked out and caught a vibration in the web I should have caught a long time ago.

Either way, this piece inspired me to share some of the questions I have racing around inside my own busy head that seem to flow right along with my new best friend’s line of thought.

(Hi new bestie. Can I sit with you at the lunch table? We can wear black on the outside because black is how we feel on the inside. If you get this reference, I am further smitten.)

Here’s a question I have been asking myself for a long time.

What the actual fuck is wrong with me?

(Narrator: “Ma’am, Substack is the White Castle drive-thru version of dailies. Please take your tome of woes elsewhere.”)

OK, condensed version. I’d hate for anyone’s eyes to glaze over from reading more than 800 words. I mean it this time.

Case in point: I call our vehicle Old Gregg because I’m pretty sure it came from a swamp or lived in one at some point in its lifetime before we obtained it. It is a smelly beast, and we do not care if it gets bashed to hell in East Dayton, where driving is optional while operating a vehicle and looking at your phone.

Old Gregg cost $1100 and is on a reclaimed title. Fight me. I give zero fucks about dents or scratches and I will hit a curb if I feel like it.

I’m not sure I would be functionally able to drive a car worth more than a couple grand and I am constantly wondering where in the general hell people get a $100k to lay out for a pick-up truck with neat little steps that fold up automatically.

Also, are they insured by Jesus Christ Himself with a zero deductible? Because I would have to be to drive anything I couldn’t live in comfortably for the rest of my life that cost $100k. I had my fill of that worrying about a big truck for a decade or so. It’s exhausting.

Old Gregg could definitely use tires and a brake job, and I actually had the money to do that recently, but hubs and I spent $2k on a cat that we apparently love more than our road safety. Here’s the kicker…the cat still died, and I hope that’s not an indicator of what may happen to our tires and brakes before we get them done, because we are absolutely going to choose the animal every time.

Conclusion: I know it’s crazy, and I would do it again one hundred and fifty times.

Next observation: Am I deeply disturbed because I farted loud enough to scare my half-blind, epileptic cat, causing him to rocket off the bed and into the frame of the metal cat fence we have on our bedroom door (but never shut because Steven runs into it) hard enough to make a loud ‘BOING’ noise and make me laugh about it so hard I hurt my back?

Is this actually karma, or does my body hate me so much that it’s angry when I laugh? I ponder these things when I’m zoning out during an important conversation I should be paying attention to.

(I’m sorry Doctor Expensive, what was that again? My spleen is hanging out? No way. Will the scar be cool? Make it shaped like a smiley face, wouldja? I got an eyeball on my boob that tried to kill me, I may as well get it a mouth. Hey, let me go. I don’t want to go to the grippy sock spa…I really do have an eyeball shaped scar on my boob!)

By the way, the cat is fine. In fact, he sent me into further gales of laughter by stopping long enough to hiss at the fence frame before leaving the room to go pee on the most expensive item he could find on the floor.

I have no questions about whether or not that part is karma, because that part is Mr. Steven Wonder Beans saying, “You farted loud enough to scare me, and now I am going to go do a bad to your (insert whatever item he can see well enough to piss on).”

Notes on poor life choices and the lessons learned.

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December 15, 2025

If you follow along, you’ve met our blind cat, Stevie, and his sister, Jane. They were both supposed to go with the previous round of TNR kitties we take bi-monthly; however, Stevie apparently got himself into some antifreeze or was born with neurological issues that manifested when he was trapped for TN…

This is the same cat I was certain would die in my arms from a respiratory infection caused by aspiration during a seizure in which he was rendered blind and very, very sick for a solid seven days. I woke up every day expecting to find him dead, and he was not.

Steven W. Beans surviving was a win and a half when I needed one real bad. I’m a nurse at heart. It’s what I did and what I would still do if my body didn’t act stupid about hauling around hundreds of pounds of human flesh (that isn’t mine) on the daily.

Steven is now officially a unit and a half himself, and one of the highlights of my day. He had another seizure that was pretty bad, but it seemed to restore his sight function at least a little bit.

His vision (or lack thereof) certainly does not keep him from finding the food bowl, and wreaking general havoc on the house when he’s feeling his Wheaties. He’s a funny, funny boy. I don’t look forward to the seizure that will undoubtedly take him from us, but we will love his silly ass and yes, spend money we have set aside for other things if we need to make him comfortable.

Oh my stars, I’ve droned on for more than 900 words. I’d like to thank my mom and maybe three other people who made it to the end of my extended soliloquy on life questions. You guys rock.

Please be safe out there, and because I know my ma loves Stevie Wonder, turn it up to eleven.