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I was raised agnostic and tend to remain ambiguous on theological matters.

-but my house has a porch on the second story that affords me a terrific view of my neighborhood and the Colorado Front Range and I was partaking of some peace before the 4th Of July Finger-Loss Festivities begin, and I have had a

~*Spiritual Experience*~

I just watched my neighbor try to unload an actual wooden pallet that had to have been forklifted into the back of his insecurity pickup worth of fireworks.

Except that he does not have a forklift in his garage.

He does have so much sports memorabilia and cardboard boxes of unsold MLM Merchandise and patriotically themed camping gear and posters of women in bikinis and flags of suspect political organizations in his garage that there is only BARELY enough space for the fireworks and certainly none for his truck.

So he had to unload the individual boxes of recreational explosives from the back of his truck and stack them in the minimal space he had cleared by hand. This is a tedious and time-consuming process as this neighbor has purchased a wide variety of recreational and locally illegal explosives instead of many of just a few types, so the individual boxes are rather small.

He begins, and this is crucial to what happens next, by cutting apart the industrial-grade saran wrap his explosives dealer had so carefully wrapped his merchandise in, and discarded it unsecured on his lawn.

Where Outdoor Conditions sometimes happen.

His process for unloading the fireworks is to 1. Climb up through the gate into the bed of his pickup truck (a feat made unusually difficult due to the slope of his driveway, and this man's fascinating decision to wear the world's Siffest and least Flexible Denim Overalls. 2. Once in the pickup bed, he selects ONE (1) box from the pile He is apparently from a niche religious institution that doesn't believe in stacking things. 3. Carries it awkwardly around the palette that barely fits in the truck bed 4. His wife yells "Be careful!" when he nearly falls out of the pickup. 5. He Yells "SHADDUP!" back at her. 6. The Large German Shepherd barks from inside the house. 7. He yells "SHADDUP!" back at her too. 8. He sets the (1) box down on the gate 9. Slowly and awkwardly climbs out of the pickup bed 10. picks the box back up, and carries it into the garage.

Question: Aren't you going to help this poor man? Answer: Absolutely Not.

There's four military veterans, MANY dogs, and several people with dementia in this neighborhood, all of whom are terrified by this chicanery every year and many neighbors have repeatedly asked him to maybe do the fireworks somewhere else. (This is the Eighth Year Running he's held a major demolition event in his driveway, and for those of you who can do math, you may be able to guess the precipitating incident to this little ritual) Additionally, I live in Colorado, a state marginally less prone to spontaneous and catastrophic conflagrations than a rotting grain silo, but only marginally. Our recreational explosives laws are written accordingly.

I am in fact calling the Non Emergency line to report Fireworks violations, and reading off the brand labels to someone named Dorothy, who is gleefully totaling up a SPECTACULAR fine for my oblivious neighbor.

However, while I'm on the phone with Dorothy, I notice the wind begin to pick up. and by "Notice" I mean "The Industrial Saran Wrap he left on his Lawn earlier is suddenly swept up about 100 feet into the air by an updraft intense enough to make my ears pop" And by "Pick Up" I mean "I look up to see the sky has turned a fun and exciting shade of glass green, and the bottoms of the clouds are bumpy and rounded, and the overall effect is not unlike looking up through the bottom of the cup at God's Matcha Boba Tea."

For those of you who do not live in places with Inclement Weather, these conditions mean "You have about 30 seconds before a Major Meteorological Event Occurs."

I move under the eaves. "Hang on Dorothy." I say, nose filling with Petrichor. "The show is about to be cancelled." "Oh, that doesn't matter!" Dorothy cheerfully informs me. "It's illegal for him just to possess those, no matter if he actually gets to set them off or not." "Terrific, because he's gotten maybe five boxes out of a hundred inside."

Sometimes, the weather gods are Merciful and give you a verbal warning, typically in the kind of thunderclap that makes your ears ring.

The Gods were not merciful today.

It's not often that I am in the time, place, correct angle or in a properly observational frame of mind to see this, But I got to see it today. Huh. I thought. I've never seen a cloud just DIVE for the ground before. Oh. I realized as it got closer. That's RAIN.

Sometimes, a thunderstorm will form in such a way that the rain that would normally be distributed over an area of say, five to tent square miles, is instead concentrated into an area of say, my neighborhood exactly.

So today, I was granted the rare privilege of being able to actually see the literal wall of water descend from On High and DIRECTLY onto my porch, my street, and my neighbor's truck, and his pile of unwrapped fireworks.

The sheer impact force of the downpour immediately scatters the teetering pile of fireworks boxes in the back of the truck, like the wrath of God striking down the tower of Babel. Boxes tumble, then are washed out of the bed of the truck by the deluge. Smaller Boxes are carried down the road in a little line by the stream forming in the gutter, like little impotent explosive ducklings.

My neighbor was definitely yelling something, but I could not hear what over the DEAFENING noise several million gallons of water makes upon high-speed contact with the earth's surface, but there was a lot of arm-waving and faces turning red as he went looking for the saran wrap that had probably blown to Nebraska by now, while his wife started disassembling the complex three-dimensional puzzle of interlocking material goods in search of a tarp. They do not have a tarp. They have one of those wretched Thin Blue Line flags though, and my neighbor jogs out in a futile effort to cover what's left in the truck.

Which is when the hail begins.

"HELLO?" Yelled Dorothy. "HI!" I shouted. "WE'RE HAVING SOME WEATHER!" "OH GOOD!" she shouts back. "WE NEED THE MOISTURE!"

I watch for a minute longer, but the loss was immediate and catastrophic- the hail is the size of marbles and dense and cares not for your pitiful cardboard and cellophane, ripping the boxes asunder and punching holes in the few things covered in plastic. The colors on the Thin Blue Line Flag are seeping all over the remains of that it was supposed to protect in a particularly apt visual metaphor. Not even the few boxes that made it into the garage are spared, as the German Shepherd escapes from indoors, and in an attempt to assist her humans, jumps directly into the small stack of not-yet-ruined boxes, scattering them into the driveway and deluge. She even picks one up so her humans will chase her around the yard, before dropping it in the gutter to be swept away.

So. I was raised Agnostic -but even I can recognize when God slaps someone upside the head and shouts "NO!" at them.

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(If you laughed, please consider supporting my Ko-fi or preordering my book of Strange Stories on Patreon)

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you know how some people sleep with guns or knives under their pillows for protection? KEEP YOUR KNIGHT IN YOUR BED INSTEAD!! FOR SAFETY REASONS!! THAT'S YOUR LIVING WEAPON!!!! #mylivingweapon

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im just a huge sucker for charismatic villains becoming sort of pseudo good guys and hanging out with the main characters just because a bigger, more serious threat emerges and i dont think it happens enough tbh. especially when they’re still kind of a dick, i just think its a fun trope

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“Hot and bothered” in the sense that it is 90 degrees out and I am extremely annoyed

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I know I’ve talked about it before but it never ceases to amaze me that the city of Toronto created this labyrinthine series of underground walkways that stretch for kilometres under the heart of downtown and they called it the fucking PATH. like how much more ominous could that even be. It doesn’t even stand for anything it’s just the PATH, all caps. What fucking fae named this artisanal bakery maze.

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Crazy thing about #healing #recovery Small Victories is when you'll have some shit going on that's like, saying this would involve admitting how you used to be doing. You know? Like hey guys good news I'm gonna change my bedsheets this year

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My mother found these in a boutique. They look like L'Artistes to me but there is absolutely zero marker's marks on them and I'm baffled.

There's NO label. It hasn't worn off, there's not even the indent from where it might've been printed. Inside the shoe is a silver 41 for the size and that's it.

If anyone knows wtf these are, lemme know. I'm gonna google around.

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if you just register for a dysautonomia international medical conference. and you just let the videos play. and you even just half pay attention. you will gain the ability to change and save other people's lives.

so many chronically ill people only get diagnosed when someone other than their doctors say, "hey, have you heard of postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome? it is really common, treatable, but it only shows up on specific tests."

or "hey, I know you have been diagnosed with fibromyalgia, have you had autonomic testing or testing for non length dependent small fiber neuropathy? 30-40% of people with fibromyalgia have small fiber neuropathy, and a lot of that is the non length dependent pattern, which not a lot of doctors know about."

or "hey, you know how you have weird allergy issues? have you ever heard of mast cell activation syndrome? around 17% of people have mast cell issues, and they can cause debilitating symptoms all over the body until treated."

there are so many debilitating chronic illnesses that are EXTREMELY treatable, but only show up on specific tests. a lot of people with these conditions test as 'healthy' otherwise. and so fucking many of these kinds of conditions are presented at dysautonomia international in presentations that are easy to understand.

these medical conditions are everywhere, and have been around forever. and covid-19 has multiplied how many people have these, around the world.

everyone has an autonomic nervous system, and it breaks very easily. dysautonomia can happen alongside countless other medical conditions. every chronically ill person needs to be asking themselves if they might have some form of autonomic dysfunction. because chances are pretty good that they do.

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Embrace your divine feminine energy by taking part in traditional women's hobbies & interests like experimenting with radioactive materials, developing mathematics, programming computers, piloting aircraft and practicing marksmanship.

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If you like the word “queer” reblog.

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[said with increasing amount of distress] i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this

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[said with increasing amount of distress] i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this

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Every single week I cycle through a different coffee shop in my town and ask the barista to make me their favorite drink in a medium. I have an entire spiel:

“All milk is fine, caffeinated and not caffinated i’m game, hot and iced both work, it can be coffee or tea or anything.”

It has yet to fail me. Every time I have tried a new drink I never would have thought to try and every one I’ve had has been amazing. The true delight I’ve seen in baristas faces pondering on what to make me and the joy they have when I like the drink always makes my day and I hope it makes theirs too. It’s the little things of kindness that can make someone’s day and I feel that it helps the world be kinder. Highly recommend doing this yourselves.