So why the interference?

Because the composer dedicated the piece to transgender activist Marsha Johnson, a key figure in the 1969 Stonewall uprising against police raids in New York. From Thomas’s website, these program notes:

This piece is a celebration of the bravery of trans women, and in particular, Marsha “Pay It No Mind” Johnson. Marsha is credited with being one of the instigators of the famous Stonewall uprising of June 28,1969 – one of the pivotal events of the LGBTQ liberation movement of the 20th century – which is commemorated annually during the worldwide Gay Pride celebrations. Existing as a trans woman, especially a trans woman of color, and daring to live authentically, creating space for oneself in a transphobic world is one of the bravest acts I can imagine. Over 20 trans women were murdered in the United States in 2018 alone. There is no demographic more deserving, and frankly, long overdue for highlighted heroism and bravery. The disco vibe in the latter half of the piece is meant to honor club culture, a sacred space held amongst LGBTQ persons in which to love, live, mourn, heal, strategize, connect, disconnect, and dance in defiance of those outside forces who would seek to do LGBTQ persons harm simply for daring to exist and take up space.
We pump our fists to honor the life, heroism, activism, and bravery of Marsha P. Johnson, to honor the legacy of the Stonewall revolution, to honor the memory of the trans lives violently ended due to fear and hatred, and in honor of trans women worldwide who continue to exist unapologetically and who demand to be seen.
This piece was commissioned by the Desert Winds Freedom Band, under the direction of Dean McDowell, to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall uprising.

Because this wind band piece was written about and dedicated to the LGBTQ+ community, a group of “well-meaning” individuals have now taken upon themselves to decide if it’s worth performing, never mind that the students have been working on it and have already learned the history behind it. Their fear that (le gasp!) a high schooler might learn about trans people is a little late and a whole lotta misplaced. For starters, I guaranfuckingtee that high schoolers are perfectly aware of what trans is, and compassionate education keeps kids alive. Both suicide and murder are high in the LGBTQ+ community, especially trans people. This board meeting is nothing more than censorship wrapped up in phony concern. Oh won’t someone think of the children? Yeah, I’ll believe that line when school lockdown drills are a sad footnote in a history book. LGBTQ+ people exist, always have and always will. I know and love many of them.

The band room has always been a safe place for me; I practically lived there in high school. I’ve long said that I’m more me when I’m in a band room, weaving beauty from air. Most of my friends are band geeks or were, in their younger days. I’ve met Omar Thomas and he’s an amazing man and one helluva composer. Dean McDowell, the director of the commissioning group, is a friend of my husband’s. This is personal; get your fascist bullshit the fuck out of my band room happy place.

Where does this stop? First a piece about Stonewall, then what? As I write this I’m listening to Percy Grainger’s Lincolnshire Posy. Grainger’s private life was an eye-opening spicy lesson to read about in college, IYKYK…are we going to censor his music because of that? Music by women? Music by Jews, Muslims, anyone considered “other?” Are we going to end up with concerts of only dead white men? If I wanted that I’d have season tickets to the Chicago Symphony. I don’t want SausageFest concerts; I want programs bursting with the diversity that is humanity, and I fear they may be targeted. Not always directly, but by not being programmed at all. Fuck that.

So today’s Band Music Friday (on a raging Thursday) is Omar Thomas’s A Mother of a Revolution, performed by the Brooklyn Wind Symphony. Listen deeply, visit his website. Support composers writing important music and absolutely support the groups performing them.

And fuck this expanding fascism.

The post Band Music Friday: A Mother of a Revolution appeared first on Laughing at Chaos.

Tom has gotten me hooked on Shrinking, the Harrison Ford show on Apple TV. I avoided it for ages, because the Harrison Ford character has Parkinson’s and I didn’t want to deal with that. But goddamn, this show is so well written and perfectly acted that I fell I fell in love with it and it angers me. It angers me because I don’t write that well and it angers me that now I want to live in California and it angers me because Parkinson’s stole my dad from me, piece by piece, for years before it ended.

I’m still in season one (happens when you’re both busy and want to watch together), but I’ve seen a few snippets of the most recent season. Where Harrison Ford and Michael J. Fox meet in a clinic and exclaim, “FUCK PARKINSON’S.” That…that hit so, so hard. Because when I write about this fucking disease, all I can say is FUCK PARKINSON’S. For years it’s been FUCK PARKINSON’S.

My dad died from this fucking disease three years ago today. He told us of the diagnosis in 2010, and was a major reason why we decided to move back to Illinois from Colorado in 2011. We had several great years with him before shit got serious in the fall of 2019. His blood pressure went rogue and mom couldn’t get him off the floor and had to call EMS. That was the beginning of the end.

That fucking disease stole him from us, just as it stole his mom some 25-odd years earlier.

I tried to save his brain for research, I really tried. But he died over a weekend and the brain people couldn’t get their shit together quick enough to recover the grey matter. Other stuff was recycled…ahem…donated, but not his brain. I desperately wanted his brain studied, because he was an amazing twice-exceptional man with FUCKING PARKINSON’S and it needed to be studied. I’ll go to my grave regretting that it couldn’t be saved for science.

It’s been a really rough few weeks here. My therapist was out of town last week, and today it took a solid 20 minutes just to get her caught up. At one point she thought I was finished, but no, because THEN THERE WERE ANTS. For the record, there shouldn’t be ants in the dishwasher filter when you go to wash it. The more you know!!!

The ants were the six-legged frosting on the shit cake of the last few weeks. Today’s therapy takeaway? First world problems are still problems when you live in said first world. That said, a strong argument can be made that the US is not remotely a first world and that’s definitely a big part of the ant-frosted shit cake.

I lost my dad three years ago today and I miss him. I miss going to quirky food markets and little hidden bookstores with him. I miss sharing interesting science articles that I find. I miss seeing him and my mom light up a room, just by being together. I miss his quiet humor that is so much like mine. I miss him but I’m glad he’s gone because the hellscape we’re living through on the daily would have destroyed his gentle soul.

The final frontier comes for us all eventually. I just hope I leave the world in a better place, as he did.

The post After three years appeared first on Laughing at Chaos.

Why is this?

Because today, the wee babe who made me the mom I am today, the lil kid who kept me on my toes, the young adult working on launching into the world…that person is 25 today.

I am far too young to have a 25-year-old child. I say this because I am all of 17 years upon this earth, a delicate flower of innocence and charm, far too lovely to have a full grown-ass adult as offspring. Say it isn’t so!

But ’tis so. I may have the inner child of a 12-year-old boy, the humor of a frat boy named Chad, and the misplaced belief that I’m as young as I wanna be, but the calendar don’t lie. Neither do my joints. Also learned this morning that I’ve been besties with a high school friend for 38 years; I thought he was lying at first. Dammit.

It’s a strange thing, to get to this point of parenting. They need you, but not really; for one kid we’re the boomerang house while the other needs long-distance advice and support. Free of the never ending radar alerts of early parenting, but not really; the Mom Radar is quieter, fewer pings but much louder when they ring out. It’s strange and it’s lovely and after 25 years, disconcerting.

Letting go, especially when you’ve raised some seriously complex kids, is more emotionally confusing than I expected. Of course, parenting this crew is entirely more everything than I expected, so it’s ironic that this has caught me by surprise.

But TWENTY-FIVE? The preschooler who was a main topic of posts here, back when I started this blog…twenty years ago. TWENTY. YEARS. AGO.

So time has caught me by surprise. It’s grabbed me by the neck and shaken me over the Pit of WTAF for ages now.

Today is my eldest’s 25th birthday.

I’ve been a mom for twenty-five years.

Happy birthday, sweetie. I love you so much.

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As you can see, the metrics indicate I hit a nerve.

Everyone I know is struggling. I literally cannot think of a single person who is not hurting, just trying to get through the days, wishing for something to look forward to, wanting life to ease up for a second. Instead we get daily trauma dumps and horrors done in our name. Every day is harder than the one before, and the gears of my coping mechanisms are starting to rust and stutter.

I was laid off in October. Not unexpected, just mortifying, as I was on a business trip at the time. I won’t say more, because reasons, but I’ve been spending the last six months getting my poop in a group and sorted by size, shape, aroma, and holy crap that metaphor really took a turn. Apologies. I had that job for just shy of four years; two as an embedded contractor and two as a full-time employee. I was good at it and I liked it, but it retrospect it was hella stressful.

The universe threw a sack over my head last fall and kicked me out of a blacked-out van into the land of Now What? The landmarks are only vaguely familiar and the language like something I knew once upon a time. I used to have a home here but gave it up, figuring I’d not be back. I didn’t intend to stay long, but here I am, six months and counting. I’ve had several interviews and several “thanks but…” emails; so hard to get to the last round and lose the gig, even harder when it’s to someone you know and like. I’m waiting to hear on a position right now and hoping for the best and steeling myself for…sigh…for the ongoing effort of job hunting in a 0% job growth climate. When you have a varied background and an impressive array of random skills, it’s tough convincing others that skills are transferrable and experience from different backgrounds is still experience. It’s Effort: Extreme Edition.

<- This emoji gets a lot of play these days.

It’s been a rough six months following a couple of stressful years, which (natch) came right on the heels of an even more hellacious near-decade. I’m ready for a break, for things to ease up for awhile. I’d long hoped things would be smoother by the point of my life, but it’s sure shaping up to be like the first humans crossing the American prairie, getting to the Rocky Mountains, and muttering the local equivalent of “oh holy fuck what is this bullshit?”

Hang in there, friends. It’s looking to get a lot worse before it gets any better. It’s my hope that we as a community learn how to adjust our rusting gears to adapt to each other and ease our collective effort. Somehow.

Before the effort of day-to-day life takes us out.

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When I was in middle school, my band director gave us all some life advice that’s stuck with me ever since. Sometimes it’s stuck like a prickly burr between my toes and won’t come loose, but stuck nonetheless.

“Get in the parade; don’t let the parade pass you by.”

He was encouraging us to get involved in life, not to stand on the sidelines and watch, but to dive in and have experiences. And lo, how I have done that. Sometimes I look around at all I do now and back at all I’ve done and I’m gobsmacked by the sheer variety.

One of my favorites was something my 16-year-old self never would have imagined. Take a look at this photo, recently unearthed from my mom’s picture stash.

That’s me on the podium, conducting a youth flute choir I organized with the help of the Colorado Flute Association. And the gentleman playing along with us?

None other than Sir James Galway, the Man With the Golden Flute. You may have heard of him.

It’s been 25-ish years since this took place and I’m STILL astonished that 1) he agreed to play with this group of young flutists, 2) that I CONDUCTED SIR JAMES GALWAY OH MY GOD, and 3) there is photo proof.

Life has been awfully life-y lately and kicking back to watch the parade march by has been far easier than lacing up the shoes and searching for my shako; yes, the marching band hat whose mission in life is to ruin your hairdo. But the joy and fun of life is in that parade, not the sidelines, so I guess I’ll give up on good hair and get in the parade.

It’ll just be tough to top that photo.

In proofing this post, I discovered I’d written about getting in the parade before. Way back in the holy shit days of 2014 I wrote about my overwhelm and how my kid could stand to get more involved in things. I’m going to say I’m not running out of ideas but am just leveling them up. Or something.

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Yes, hello. I am here to scream into the abyss.

Sorry ma’am, abyss is closed for maintenance.

Uh, I paid for unlimited access, no restrictions whatsoever. The super duper ultimate no-holds-barred, I raised two G2e kids, I’m the gooey center of the sandwich generation, constant midlife crisis, the world is fucking ending, perimenopause can go consume a satchel of Richards, full open bar 24/7/365(6) access. Get the hell outta my way, I have an abyss to fill.

As I said, the abyss is currently down for unscheduled maintenance. You see, it’s been getting quite a bit of traffic lately. Caravans of midlife women in full Mrs. Roper garb have been showing up with martinis and throat lozenges. Teachers have moved in, rocking to and fro under rock ledges as they howl. Earplugs can’t keep up. Our staff is on an emergency rotation to protect their ears and sanity…or what’s left of it. You don’t stay sane long, working the abyss.

I thought the abyss was soundproof!

So did we! But the screams filling it lately have come from the most primal center of souls. I’ve never heard anything like it. Screamers arrive and it’s as though they’re living in the depths of hell, wailing for release. It’s caused some major damage to the abyss.

We’re all living in the depths of hell these days, my dude.

Evidently. So the abyss needs the equivalent of a full-blown roto-rooter enema. A complete flush with deep scrubbing, followed by a clay mask and an entire barrier relief protocol. That’s a new procedure from a Korean skincare company branching out into abyss care. Should help keep the abyss from getting so congested and impacted. Then we need to scaffold the shit outta the place, bring it up to code, and given its infinite size, we don’t have an eta for completion.

Well. Fuck. What about the void? I could swan dive into the void and do a little screaming there.

Sadly, the void is full. Never, in all my years here (and I’ve been here for all eternity), has the void filled. If you stripped down and greased up, you might squeeze into a spot beneath someone’s left tit, but no promises. And there’s sure as hell no room for any screaming – at best a few quiet whimpers. Oh, and there is zero fresh air in there, it truly reeks of cabbage farts, so whimper at your own risk.

So you mean to tell me that I have an exclusive pass to not a goddamned thing here? I have some screaming to let loose, I’m sick to death of this life, and I need some void time. What the hell can you offer me? I’m desperate here.

Hmmm…may I suggest the Chasm of Concern? You could register a complaint.

That’s it? May I suggest where you can stick that suggestion?

O-kayyy…The Pit is open, you’re eligible, but I must warn you, it comes with a price.

I’ve already paid for an all-access pass to places that aren’t available, I’m sure as hell not paying more.

The price is that all wails and screams and gnashing of teeth in The Pit are recorded and used to train our newest AI system.

Are.You.Fucking.Kidding.Me?

AbyssAI will take your input and do something with it. Something very special, so special we can’t tell you. But we’re sure you’ll love it. We know you’ll love it. You will have no choice but to love it.

Right. I’m out. Looks like it’s gummies and screaming into throw pillows tonight. Kindly take your AbyssAI and shove it where the sun don’t shine, and contact me when the abyss and void are again available. In the meantime, all y’all can <redacted> and <heavily redacted> and <my god redact redact redact>.

Of course, ma’am, have a lovely day!

The post The abyss and you appeared first on Laughing at Chaos.

One of the few, and I mean VERY few (as in this is the only one), things I miss about teaching through Covid was introducing new wind band music to my students. Every day, without fail, I started class with the Band Piece of the Day. It started as a way to create some sort of structure as well as kill 3-30 minutes of class time. Hey, no side eye, we were all making it up as we went, and you try teaching middle school band online. I hear the Google Meet chime and to this day I get the shakes. IT’S BEEN FIVE YEARS. The very opposite of good times, good times. But I digress. I’d give a little entertaining background on the piece and composer and let ‘er rip. I have no idea if the kids were listening or if they even gave half a golden shit but I was putting it out there. Given our technological limitations it was the best I could do some days. 100+ days of band music in a time when everything was scary and uncertain, including wondering if a kid was gonna accidentally leave the webcam on as they took the Chromebook on a bathroom trip. Yes. Really happened.

I kept it up when I left teaching and started working at a small edtech marketing firm. Band Music Friday was born when I needed to share a piece I loved and really felt the pull to write. Again, sharing a band piece I loved with background details on it, only this time it didn’t have to be rated G so I had a good time with it. My colleagues there, being A+ awesome human beings, loved it, actually listened to the music and loved it, and so I tried to get a BMF up most weeks.

Why? Why do this? Who gives a shit about band music? It’s just little kids honking through a beginning band concert, or high schoolers in odorous wool marching out of step as people buy hot dogs during halftime, right?

Bitch, please.

Wind ensemble music is having a moment. The quality and depth of music written over the last 25-30 years is extraordinary, and don’t even get me started on the ensembles playing that music. It all deserves every bit as much respect granted to orchestral music and ensembles, but struggles against tired band stereotypes. This one time, at band camp…? Legit one of the funniest movie scenes I’ve seen; Tom and I went to see that movie one lovely summer evening, and I wore a T-shirt with flute printed on it in 20+ languages. The movie has been out forever so it’s on you if you don’t know the punchline to that joke and why my shirt got SO MANY STARES; go consult with The Google Machine if you don’t know it. But those tired stereotypes persist and that pisses me off. 

So I’m bringing Band Music Friday here. Might not be every week but it’ll always be on a Friday because this is my playground and I’m on something like my fifth rodeo. Sixth, if I count that one time at band camp…

Today’s Band Music Friday is courtesy of our composer friend Gustav Holst. You may know him as the composer of such bangers as The Planets, but true band geeks know him as “the orchestral composer who respected and loved writing for wind band and so he did.” My dude knew quality.

The piece I picked is his First Suite in Eb (recognized as one of the earliest examples of modern band instrumentation) and I’m sharing two versions. First is the full suite, performed by the Tokyo Kosei Wind Orchestra (a fantastic ensemble in Japan, which BTW, has an incredible wind band history courtesy of Frederick Fennell who was at Eastman School of Music forever and brought it over. But I digress; Uncle Freddy and wind band in Japan is an entire Band Music Friday by itself). Your standard lovely performance; I’m starting BMF with classics before sharing some blow your soul straight outta your body favorites.

The second is a YouTube video of The President’s Own Marine Band. I wanted to share this because it best shows what musicians did (or tried to do) during the early months of the pandemic. There were a lot of these “bands in squares.” We needed to make music, even when it was damned near impossible to get together. Every one of the musicians has a click track in their ear and they recorded themselves playing to it. This being the best wind band in the country (and my very own Walter Mitty fantasy), they have impeccable tuning, and balance was essentially after the fact with mixing board music software. I get emotional watching this, because at the time none of us knew how long we’d be playing solo or if we’d ever get to gather to make music again. I did one of these “band in a box” recordings during the pandemic and it’s harder than it looks. There’s so much interplay between musicians, especially of the near-psychic sort, that playing into a camera and hoping it all comes out ok is a paltry substitution.

Please to enjoy. Have a great weekend!

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Twenty years I opened a browser window and started writing the blog that became Laughing at Chaos. It was the era of mommy bloggers (lord do I loathe that term) and I fell in love with writing for the first time since picking up a flute at age 9. What started with random musings soon became a blog on parenting neurocomplex twice-exceptional kids. Laughing at Chaos led to a book, If This is a Gift, Can I Send It Back?, which led to presentations and keynotes and becoming quite well-known in gifted circles. Evidently my writing was authentic to the point that other parents felt I was living in their closet or had cameras hidden in the power outlets. For the record, I’ve never lived in anyone’s closet nor do I even know how to install hidden cameras. I backed away from that writing, not because I didn’t love it, but because my kids are now neurocomplex twice-exceptional young adults who deserve some modicum of privacy. They’re (mostly) launched and their stories are not mine to tell. I will say, however, that parenting young adults ain’t for the faint of heart and everything you’ve heard about the frontal lobe finally considering thinking about maybe developing in the mid-20s is absofuckinglutely true. Take that as you will. Send gin, JFC.

Then covid hit, and writers block, and life changes, and writers block of concrete, and the gooey center of the generation sandwich (including the death of a parent FUCK PARKINSON’S FORFUCKINGEVER), and writers block of concrete encased in titanium, and more life changes, and writers block of concrete encased in titanium grown over with giant hogweed, and finally to the today of political and cultural upheaval sliding a greased pole to hell screaming YippieKayYayMotherfucker all the way down. It’s been…a lot.

I’ve changed. Oh gods how I’ve changed. I’m no longer the person who innocently started that blog in 2006. In some ways that’s a relief and in others it’s a little disconcerting. It’s just…who the hell am I now?

Well. I’m a woman in the third act of her life, deep into the hell of perimenopause. A mostly empty nester married for almost 30 years. A dog mom to Lemon; mostly Great Pyrenees with a variety of shepherd breeds, 100% loving goober, and the gentle guardian of my entire mental health. A flutist and writer, or was, and wants to be again. A foul-mouthed liberal with little to no patience for bullshit; quiet, reserved, and introverted until I’m not; deeply loyal once my heart and soul have been won; and leaning hard on the twin load-bearing supports of absurdity and gallows humor (I’m either professionally distracting you in the ER or I am your absolute worst nightmare). A very late-diagnosed woman with ADHD “with a sprinkle of the ’tism.” (Finally diagnosed in 2025 after years upon years of wondering). Other than all that? I have no fucking clue.

But what I’m absolutely certain of?

I’m past apologizing for a fucking thing. My mouth, my opinions, my march-to-the-beat-of-their-own-drummers-out-of-the-box family, my deep desire to do what’s best for me while not harming anyone else. I am almost 53-fucking-years old and I am over a lot. At best I have a solid 30 years ahead of me, and that’s a freakishly small number when compared to all I want to still do with this one incredible life.

When I started blogging in 2006, what drew me was the community. Others who wrote long-form posts, sharing their points of view and lives. Essays of life and connection, not SEO and sales. I started moving my writing base of operations over to Substack because there was a vibrant community there (I originally posted this there last fall). And then I realized that yes, there was community, but it was loud, I wasn’t sure I liked it and I liked my peaceful lil piece of the interwebz over here. I’ll rediscover and rebuild community; surely I’m not the only neurocomplex parent of neurocomplex young adults dragging themselves out of complete mind/body/soul burnout as their country disintegrates under their feet, yes?

So I’ve returned. Amazingly, this place wasn’t completely grown over, just needed some dusting and a light exorcism. As much as constant “improvements” to WordPress piss me off, I’m going to call them brain strengthening exercises as learning new things keeps the grey matter young. Probably a good thing, I’ve been asking too much of the crossword puzzles lately anyway.

I have no clue how this is gonna shake out over time, but the roadtrip of life is a lot more fun with someone riding shotgun.

The post Still Laughing at Chaos appeared first on Laughing at Chaos.

Chaos is my word, yo.

For the last several years my word has been used to describe a certain individual and the vortex of shit that flies around him. Wanna guess who? Yes, it’s The Former Guy, the orange menace, the fascist wrapped in an inverted flag. While the word may be appropriate, I fucking laugh at chaos; says so right there at the top of the page. I cannot and will not laugh at the chaos around that person. He’s not allowed to have my word, I had it first, the media can bloody well go find another to describe him and his bullshit.

Might I suggest bedlam or mayhem? Perhaps turmoil. Surely pandemonium fits, as does madness. Anarchy and lawlessness are definitely in the running. ALL HELL BROKEN LOOSE, a madhouse. A goddamned three-ring circus. Pick one, I don’t care. Hell, assign one to each day of the week so we know which day the bullshit occurred.

Enough with the chaos. It belongs to me and the G2e community.

I’d also like to throw the word weird into the conversation. For years, YEARS I TELL YOU, I’ve said that “weird is just a side-effect of awesome.” I’ve said it to flute students, I’ve said it to band kids (lo, how often I said that during the 18 months of online bandertainment that was Covid teaching), I’ve said it to parents of quirky kids. It helped soften the blow of being called weird by those who didn’t understand the ins and outs of complex kids, and I stand by that phrase.

But.

And.

I one-million-point-seven-five percent agree with calling the current Republican presidential candidates and their willfully ignorant followers “weird.” They are most definitely not the awesome-weird of quirky kids, but the WTAF-weird of “does this person even know how to human?” Weird. Just weird. Giant maxi pad ear bandages and carrying around sperm sample cups? No words. For real, no words, just a shake of the head and “that….that is fucking weird.” I’ll be so glad when this election is over. I’m fighting hard because I cannot fathom returning to the hellscape that was 2016 – 2020, only louder and more frightening.

So we can use weird until November 5th and then I want it back. I’ll loan it out on a temporary basis and then it must return to quirky kids and their families.

Also, hi, I’m still alive. Just…weary. Permanently tired and eternally weary, and desperately trying to get back on the writing horse. Having the attention span of a

What was I talking about? It might be amusing but I really did stop in the middle of that sentence to “quick research something” and then had to remember what the hell I’d been doing. And then left the computer and forgot I was writing this post and returned to it two months later. It’s gotten bad enough that I forget what I’m writing down as I am writing it. Perimenopause can fuck right off and keep on fuckin’.

Right. So having the attention span of zero doesn’t help. I used up all the executive function I’ve ever had and ever will have in the raising of my offspring. I am now entirely lacking in executives with any kind of function, and I’m pretty sure they’re all at a three-martini lunch at that. Unfortunately, the things I want and need and like to do don’t give half a golden shit about said executives ordering another round. The execs have a debilitating case of can’t be arsed and bark at the bartender that they should only wave the dry vermouth in the direction of the gin and remember to make this round extra dirty, three olives.

If you’re still here, if you still want to read the the words I fling into the void, I recommend subscribing to the blog feed so the aforementioned words drop into your inbox without a care in the world (. I’m ignoring most of social media except for Threads, which is a refreshing breeze in the online world; you can find me there as jenlaughs. Same with Substack, where I’m starting to build a newsletter. OMG Jen, why? Because reasons. Laughing at Chaos isn’t going anywhere, I’ll still pontificate on giftedness here, but I’m feeling the pull to do something different and I’m actually listening for a change.

So. Right. Let’s recap. Gimme back my chaos, y’all can borrow weird, and despite being weary as hell I’m heading out to do new and exciting things. Sounds about right.

The post I want my word back appeared first on Laughing at Chaos.