The Axes, the Axes of the Dwarves!

in family


It’s been an “under the weather” couple of weeks, both emotionally and physically; I’ve had some kind of alien-spawned sinus infection steadily converting my cranium’s contents into alien-spawned-sinus-infection biomass. My cat, Killer, has done her best to aggravate my allergies. It’s a genuine, bona-fide cross-species conspiracy to fucking kill me. I’ve been a bit of a shit to my immediate family, my less-than-immediate-family, my friends and complete strangers in the midst of this. We fought (read: I picked fights) over attitudes and circumstances that will never, ever change, no matter your reasoning, passion, logic or facts. In any clash with the Grealishes, you discover what happen when the Immovable Object meets the Unstoppable Force. It’s like…Dwarves. Angry Dwarves. Cries of, “Baruk khazâd. Khazâd ai-mênu!” rip the air of our kitchen. Axe is beaten against shield. Battle lines are drawn. The light turns dim, smoky. And then, war.

What pulled me back from the hypothetical brink was a fourfold reminder that I am not my dad, that there are people who love me, that I always have choices, and that we will always have more lolcats. Apologies were given, and accepted. Decisions were made. I’m finally moving back out of here and into a place of my own, owing to support from a very unexpected quarter.

Six Months in the Mountain Kingdom

in me

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