Archive for November, 2015

Brain Rust

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on November 30, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Was watching a show in which someone tossed out, sarcastically, the term “brain trust”. And all I could think was, drop that, cos my brain’s used so little these days, it is rusting. Everything I do is so auto pilot these days. I’m running a default program, little intelligence required, just basic muscle memory.

It’s because I’ve not written fiction soup in a year. It’s killing me slowly. My brain is rotting inside my skull and for once, it has nothing to do with the fucked up chemicals. I NEED to exercise my brain. Hell, I’d even settle for being able to read for more than ten minute increments, just let me use my damned brain. Wait….whaaat’s that sound…Oh, yeah, that’s my brain corroding and rotting inside my skull.

I am not sure if I went hypomanic last night or if I was just in a good place, but I was awake til 5 a.m. Not doing much of importance, yet also not ready to give up “happy medium” time. And when I decided I HAD to try to sleep…scumbag brain kicked and screamed and swirled. My kid woke up so she was all yappy, that didn’t help me calm down. I refused to take a sleeping pill, absolutely refused. I did, around 4:30 take .25mg xanax, just to slow my brain. Suffice it to say, I eventually slept but the alarms went off way too damn early.

One more cool wet gray day. This is like five in a row. The damp cold has settled in my bones, I can’t seem to get warm unless enveloped in blankets. The weather report ALLEGES it will be warmer and sunnier tomorrow. I will believe it when I see it. I really need to take my outdoor Halloween stuff down (Yeah, I’m a month late, fuck it) and the yard needs raked…I finally get caught up inside for the most part and now the outdoors stuff rears its putrid head. Blarg. MY kid asked if I’d put up some Christmas lights. I don’t have any outdoor outlets and I am not running a cord out the window, so she’s gonna have to live with some garland strung up out there. And hopefully I can my santa hat skull door knocked, that always brings me a smile. I can’t even fathom the tree thing right now, we have limited space and I have limited give a damn about this holiday shit.

Call me Grinchzilla.

Haven’t done much since I dropped her off except…well, I’d say “piddle about” but that sort of sounds like a puppy peeing on the rug. I am watching The Def Leppard story. Yeah, I was gonna do that last night but….

My idiotic dad and crew let my kid drink pop so when she got home she spent ninety minutes moaning with gas pain from the carbonation. Everyone thinks my ban on soda for her is some caffeine or sugar thing but frankly, if it hurts her, I am against it. And I’ve had to cut my own intake back cos the carbonation hurts my stomach. So she moaned and groaned and when I asked her why she drank pop when she knows it hurts her tummy…and she said, “I didn’t want to be rude and say no when they gave it to me.”

That age old bullshit, same shit R pulls me with me. “Oh, Niki won’t eat supreme pizza, she’s so picky.” No, Niki won’t eat food with peppers and end up in gastric agony and chained to the bathroom for two days. Not picky, not impolite. If it hurts…don’t fucking do it, jackasses.

So what was truly amazing about last night was…I not only blew up my own box, I set the ashes on fire. For so long I have been immersed in true crime shows, my funny bone MIA. I decided for a change to try a comedy, one of my old faves. Scrubs. It felt awkward at first. Depressed people can’t laugh, right? As it happens, we can. And normally, I max out at two episodes of comedy. I watched ten back to back episodes of Scrubs and was reminded why I always liked it so much. (Dr Cox is my favorite.) Kinda like Ally McBeal and the over the top dramatizations in the character’s head. (Her getting dumped by a guy and being shown getting dumped, literally, into a dumpster, was accurate and hysterical.)

So my funny bone is making a comeback. I’m not gonna do any cartwheels cos I could just be on a hypomanic kick after the weeks of being sick and cramped and all. It could be illusion. Respite. But…under all the darkness and “what future” bleakness…I am in there somewhere, still.

Which does not mean throw a parade for me ( I WILL rain on it and blow up the fucking floats out of meanness) or use words like “happy” or “doing good”.  Because the jury is still out and I am still just bobbleheading above water here. I’m a day or so removed from curling under the covers at 8p.m. completely demoralized and beaten down.

But…Dishes are done. All laundry is caught up and put away. Cat boxes are clean. Fridge is full of food. Life isn’t that damned bad. I really loathe that aspect of the depression, taking molehills and turning them into insurmountable mountains. Except even that is a misrepresentation because some days…there are no molehills, only a misfiring brain sending you mirages of every reason life isn’t worth living.

I am still not sure life is worth living.

What the hell. I’ll hang around just to see what happens next.

With any luck..Nothing will happen. Nothing is always good.

Now maybe I need to run to the store and buy a bottle of Coke and try to pour it into my ear, maybe it will eat away some of that brain rust.


alert the wordpresses

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on November 30, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Extra, extra, read all about it!

I had a good day.

And by good, I don’t mean I won the lottery, somebody else did my housework, or I met Mr. So-charming-I-wanna-spawn-again….

But the anxiety was low, the thought processes solid and flowing, and I handled everything without getting overwhelmed, blowing up, or fizzling out.


This is what I want my life to be every day. I don’t need cash and bling or sex, drugs, rock n roll. I need a brain that can handle normal life strain solidly, roll with the punches, get things done, and not feel like drinking bleach by 7 p.m.  Give me this solidity seven days a week. As long as the mind frame is able to distinguish properly between “the house is a mess, I will never get caught up and even if I do it won’t meet high standards and my stomach hurts and moving makes me nervous so fuck I am sitting here like a deer in the headlights getting nothing done”


“A, B, C need to be done. I can  have a smoke before I move on to D, E, F.”

LOGIC. Very valuable commodity in an overly crowded speeding mind tainted by inappropriate interpretations and responses.

I want this every day.

Not because I’m in a good mood or dancing on ceilings or even feeling much beyond pretty apathetic…

I want this every day because this is clarity. Lucidity. This functionality without sacrificing my soul to unattainable standards that give me stress tummy aches. This is…

My happy medium.

I’d like to place an order for 365 happy medium days , please.


Blank Sabbath

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on November 29, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Blank. Because while the rain has stopped, it is still cold and gray outside and it does nothing to inspire me out of my mental rut. On the up side…I have kicked serious ass with the housework the last two days. I did ALL the dishes, even the take home dishes from turkey day, put them away. Tidied the bathroom minutely. Cleaned all cat boxes and that entire area, washed the rugs and rubber mats. I’ve got one load of laundry drying, and I folded and put away FIVE baskets already.

Of course, my dad took my kid for a sleepover last night so I’ve not been interrupted with Uzi rapid fire at every turn. Though Chaos seems determined to take Spook’s place by being attached to me every minute. I go the other room, she follows me. I come back to my room, she follows. Folding laundry proved challenging with my feline twin. Yet…I fucking did it. And it only took three weeks of start and stop and getting caught up then buried…

Now I wait for them to return my spawn. I am watching Vampires Suck. Ya know a movie is funny when my cheapskate ass pays money to buy it on DVD. I mean, yeah, I paid like a penny for it and four bucks shipping but still…I don’t do comedy. But if it’s this funny no matter how many times you watch it…Valid expense. Methinks later after I feed and bathe and put the spawn to bed I may watch The Def Leppard Story again. I’m feeling in need of music inspiration. Theirs is a very inspiring story. Right up til they became a Vegas lounge act wooing soccer moms with tear in my beer ballads.

Of course, what I feel like doing now could change drastically between now and then. Stupid bipolar brain. “Make up your mind” becomes  a comical statement when said to a bipolar person. If my mind could be made up, I’d flush all my fucking pills.

And yeah, another annoying thing people do. “You just expect the meds to fix everything, you don’t want to work for it.” Um. No. I want the meds to do their job of stabilizing my brain enough so my perceptions are correct so my choices are based on fact, not random mood swing 20182 or insecurity three million. I don’t think the term “mood disorder” has done much good to help McMuggles grasp bipolar. It’s a thought disorder. I can be manic as fuck but if my brain misinterprets, “You look nice today” as “You always look like shit, so today is a nice change” the whole mind frame disintegrates.

No amount of therapy and “retraining” my brain will change the chemical misfires that muck it all up. It’s odd how people in general accept schizophrenia and the visual/auditory hallucinations that come with it. “Take your meds, you think clearly.” Yet with bipolar, it’s all “suck it up, you just have a bad personality, blah blah blergyblarg.”

Fuck off.

And another myth (often fed by bipolar people themselves when they hit a solid patch and want to shout it from the mountain top)….there is NO recovery. There’s periods of remission. But medicated bipolar is still bipolar and much like taking Tylenol every day…You can still end up with a headache, or in our case,  bipolar/depressive periods.

One thing I have become convinced of as of late is that, while the mood stabilizers have certainly killed off all but brief hypomanic bouts…My depressions have grown deeper, longer, and all encompassing. Would I want to go back to the pre mood stabilizer days with the hypersexuality, the impulsivity, the retail theft charge after a complete crack up…Hell to the no.  I just also don’t think having every bit of joyful chemicals from your brain absorbed to ward off mania should result in needing a damned army of anti depressants just to lift you from the abyss.

It’s damned if we do, damned if we don’t. And frankly, we should get a little leeway to be grumpy about it.

End  of diatribe.

I am gonna blankly watch Vampires Suck (cringing because I really think that noise the hard drive is making is a sign of impending death and I cannot face the loss of another computer right now, ffs) and ponder supper since I have clean dishes and can cook now.  What I really want is to write again. I need fiction soup flowing from my fingertips onto a keyboard, desperately.

Sadly, no amount of money or prescription pills can spark creativity. That bitch has a mind of her own and she’s been flipping me off for a year now. If I can’t use the “gift” I was given, then just give me a skill I can use to make a living, damn it. This tortured artist thing isn’t working for me. Let me create or let me die.


Even in my dreams, I am a neurotic

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on November 28, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Just woke up awhile ago from some FUBAR dream..But in it a guy asked me out and because he was a friend of my sister’s…I kept shunning him cos I didn’t trust him not to blab, plus he used to date my sister’s friend who is um, way too sexually liberated and I didn’t want to really…Um. Yep. I can’t even dream like a normal person. Even asleep I have to be a neuroses laden fucked up mess. Yay me. Though in all fairness it reeks of my reality. Everyone in this town knows everyone and has slept with everyone and EWWW. Nope. I don’t just have trust issues, I have “not even with a body condom” issues. Let ladytown gather some more cobwebs, ain’t that desperate.

Can’t. Even. Dream. Right.


What I did do right last night was…feed spawn and myself, I showered, she got a bath, then we watched Garfield’s Thanksgiving together. It was cute. She said, “This was made in the fifties, wasn’t it?” Um…1989, actually. Stupid computer animation has made children forget the wonder of old school cartoons, for fuck’s sake. And frankly, the special effects ruined The Hulk for me. Give me back the Lou Ferigno/Bixby days that weren’t so overdone. Cripes.

Following being a “good mom” I went in search of fiction soup for the soul on Hulu. (Home of video buffering that you PAY for!) Then the impossible happened. I found a comedy I WANTED to watch.

Of course, it was a parody of Breaking Dawn called Breaking Wind, but since Vampires Suck (Twilight parody) is one of my all time faves, I thought, what the hell…

And I laughed. and laughed. I laughed so hard I peed a little and my sides hurt and iced tea shot out of my nose. OMG. Over the top mockery of so many pop culture inanities and it was fucking hysterical. I even loved the part where they mocked Johnny Depp and I like him but honestly, he takes on some bizarre roles and they’re usually over the top. (Except Scissorhands, will always love that one.) I’ve never even watched Breaking Dawn (I went old school and read the book) but wow, this parody was intoxicatingly funny. Generally not a fan of the infantile “fart” humor but in this movie, it worked cos ya know, title, it applied. Wow. Been a loooong time since a movie made me laugh that much. Think actually it was two years ago when Bex finally twisted my arm into watching The Heat. Yeah, that movie was funny as hell, too.

So while my humor is definitely a very dim pilot light in the dark…It’s still there. Not my fault if film makers turn out drivel that doesn’t tickle my funny bone. Frankly they’re not churning out much that holds my attention anyway, even at my most Focalin-ed up. I did watch Alex Cross the other day, grudgingly, cos Morgan Freeman wasn’t playing Cross anymore. (Tyler Perry was in the role and I cringed and gagged, but…he wasn’t so bad.) The irony is, this movie is the book I am have been reading in ten minute jaunts waiting to pick up my kid at school. I am only halfway through the book,but let’s just say…The movie butchered up the book and bastardized it to the nth. The Butcher character is supposed to be this hottie with long hair, instead he’s this short creepy bald dude who screams “serial killer, run for your life, bitches!”. Cripes, Hollywood. WTF. Did James Patterson need the money that bad he’d let you rape is work that way?

Ah, that’s the writer in my coming out.  “Editing” is a filthy word in my world. (Like buffering.) I get rather bent when I’ve read a book and then see the movie and go, what the fuck, did a paper shredder churn this script out? Creative license is one thing. Frankenmovies suck. Make it true to the book or don’t fucking bother, fucksnarts.

It’s another wet cold gloom filled day here in Armpit, midwest. Weatherbug says it will be this way until Tuesday when at long last the sun will peak out and dry everything up. Yes, it is a wonder why my moods are so low when I am living in fucking Seattle here. (Oh, god, it could be worse, there could be grunge music playing, arrghhhhblurhh).

Aren’t I the ultimate enigma? I hate sun cos it hurts my eyes and gives me headaches yet my moods are such shit when it’s gloomy I crave the sun. (And no, assclowns, happy lights are not remotely the same.) If nothing else the sun warms the trailer up. It turns out you can “fix” things up but if it was made back in 1970 and is falling apart…It’s still gonna be ten degrees colder than a newer place. Sunshine warms the place up. Whereas during summer, gray days cool the place and that’s welcome.

We’re all mad here, said the cat.

The place is at critical biohazard seven, not even ebola would live here. And still…responsible mommy brain says, get off your ass and do it…depressed brain says, let it all BURNNNN. Seriously, heat kills germs, right? Meh. I will get to it. I even tried to bribe myself with thoughts of, “If you get X, Y, and Z done, you can have a guilt free Mangorita tonight.” Ha. Not even that is working. I can only imagine the fit my mom would have. There have been times when aside from a minor catbox smell (five cats, duh) and some dust, she declared the place unfit for a kid. Ha. I’ve outdone myself this time. No clean bowls or cups or forks. Four loads of laundry behind. Carpet growing new species of sabretooth cats. (Again, I’m taking vacuum donations, not like I enjoy feeding even more critters and sabretooths eat a LOT.) 

Way I see it is…My kid has been bathed. The fridge is full of food, including apples and celery. She has apple juice to drink. Her mom spends time with her. If the dust bunnies and dirty dishes are a deal breaker…There are gonna be lots of orphans being placed in foster care. I don’t get the world’s fixation on “cleanliness and godliness”. Seriously, if you buy the bible line, well, they didn’t even have indoor plumbing to bathe regularly and they sure as hell didn’t have Swiffer and Mr. Clean and anti bacterial wipes for every surface and orifice. So was God filthy? Yeah, I am harping on it again but I make a valid fucking point.

Oh and lead me to a news story about two kids being removed from a home that had “cockroaches in every room.” Yeah, the naked mom passed out on the couch and only baloney in the fridge for the kids to eat weren’t the kicker. It was some roaches. Guess what? Even good clean people get roaches. God knows I have tried everything short of a nuke to get rid of mine. And the landlord is prepping the next door trailer for new residents so he had Orkin there, which means…the ones that don’t die will come to my place. I am fighting a losing battle here and I have to feel like a scumball every single day over something thats not my damned fault. Maybe I should just go all Grissolm from CSI and turn the roaches into pets, get me my own cockroach racing gang. Cripes.

Ya know, when I start these posts…I usually only mean to do three paragraphs. But then…yeah, scumbag brain lets loose. Oh, well. It wouldn’t be my blog if it weren’t all ranting and rambling.

I am gonna ponder clothes I didn’t sleep in (but these fleece line sweat pants are so warm and comfyyyy!) and the “cleaning” thing. Tragic H8te ball says not to hold your breath.

Bleak Friday

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on November 27, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Tis gray, cold, and rainy here today so Bleak seems an appropriate adjective. My mood”s pretty meh and I am feeling cold, achy, and lethargic. Nothing new following the stress of a holiday, even one where nothing particularly traumatic happened. (Momster got her normal digs in, but whatever.) Thus far today, Spook and I have run to the shop and R bought me a pack of smokes for ordering a couple of parts and fetching him lunch. I can live with that.

Shark week has come to an end, which just about figures. When I don’t have to be out and about the pain goes away but when expected to be functioning, I am crippled by ovary Oompa Loompas, ffs. I am suffering a headache from when we stopped at Jiffy Stop and it was all busy and the gas pump things were just constantly beeping. (How can you not admire people with steely enough nerves to handle working in such a chaotic mess???) I’ve done my due diligence and called both family factions for post holiday check in. Just finished watching The Lazurus Effect, which was fucking weird. But I like weird.

The spawn has been  so well behaved it’s like invasion of the body snatchers. Except they left her yappy mouth behind. I let her have my tablet to play and she still has to fill every moment with noise. Geesh. Not helping the headache, nor is the Tylenol. Just such a pointless dreary day. I’ve indulged in the usual Fangsgiving leftovers. Anti climactic. All that work and for what? To listen to everyone bitch how full they are blah blah blah. Such a depressive holiday even if the spirit is good. Fuck you, Hallmark and money grubbing companies who use holiday spending to buy new jets.

Lots of noise from passing traffic in the trailer hood today. Got my panxiety up so I had to take a Xanax, which I’ve not needed all week due to being in so much misery. Of course, stupid me didn’t even think to take one this morning before venturing into the dish. DERP. Black Friday, traffic was nerve racking. I survived unscathed but damn, I can’t believe I’m so lethargic I didn’t even think about traffic. It’s like my body is going through the motions but my brain is still in fort blankie snoozing. Not even an energy shot helped. This cold and dampness just drain me. Gloom used to revive me. People looove to say it’s because I am older now and I have a kid and yada yada. I blame the depression for sucking the life out of me.

And therein lies the rub. The doctors and counselors and McMuggles always want to make it about “what is going on in your life right now that is making you so depressed.” With bipolar depression, there doesn’t need to be an outside trigger. LIVING in your own misfiring brain is enough. I don’t have an awful life. We have all our needs med, even if not in lavish style. No more stress than is normal for holiday season. No bridges burned I have to repair. Depression is my baseline, sadly. Mania used to be my six month baseline, then depression my fall/winter baseline. Since mood stabilizers…It’s about two or three months of “semi stable” and the rest is all depression. I sometimes wonder if the mood stabilizers cause the worsened depression by quashing too many of the feel good chemicals.

And this joke of “happy lights” and “light therapy” because seasonal depressions are only caused by that factor alone…it would make me laugh if it didn’t make me so furious. UV lights give me massive headaches so while I don’t discount their positive impact on lifting the mood…Do I really want six months of headaches for maybe a 1% boost in my mood that lasts an hour IF I am lucky? I get it, sunlight is good for the brain. Except when you’re hypersensitive to bright light (which I NEVER was prior to years on lithium, the primary side effect of which is…extreme sensitivity to bright light, maybe it altered me or something.)

Besides which, bipolar depression can happen any time, any season, any weather, light hours be damned. So STOP FUCKING ASKING WHY A DEPRESSIVE IS DEPRESSED AND JUST TREAT THE FUCKING SHIT. I want dual mood stabilizer therapy since the anti depressant dual therapy isn’t doing fuck all. He’s already nixed that cos I am not manic. Just beating my head against a wall here, all the while every single fucking visit he bemoans, “You’ve tried everything, I don’t know what else to do.” UM, LISTEN TO ME AND LET ME DO A DUAL MOOD STABILIZER?? Much as I loathe Lithium and its nasty side effects and lab work, it, combined with Lamictal and NO anti depressant, gave me the longest most stable periods. The depression was there, but the way I coped with it was different because my brain was solid.

I don’t see him til after X-Mas so I guess I tread more water and pray to the pegacorn the dual anti depressants gain traction. I’d hate to lose the Cymbalta, truthfully, cos it ups my energy and lessens my knee pain. But it’s certainly not been the wonder drug it once was, lifting me out of the depths. Then again, none of them ever have. And especially not their newfangled atypical antipsychotics that are supposed to be superman and wonderwoman combined for bipolar. Bullfuckingshit. It’s poison. They don’t work and I have had more side effects with them than any other drugs combined. Still they keep pushing them as the cure all even when you take shit like Latuda and it tells you to kill yourself daily. “You just need a higher dose.”

What I need a is a lawyer on retainer so I can sue my shit doctors.

Okay…Rant over. Time to find another movie to rot my brain. Is it wrong to look forward to bedtime every single night? Even if I don’t sleep through and have fucked up dreams, I anticipate blankie fort time like it’s an expense paid trip to the islands. Every. single. night. The depression has quashed my hopes. The word “future” means shit to me nowadays. What fucking future? Just more treading water, more round and round on the hamster wheel.

If they had paid posterchildren for depression, I could afford to send my kid to all the ivy league schools at the same fucking time.


Posted in Uncategorized on November 27, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

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Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on November 26, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I left the house today. In pajama pants. Which according to my favorite stand up comic, Christ Titus, means I should voluntarily climb into a wood chipper. I guess wearing pajama pants in public is frowned upon? Physical discomfort dictated I wear nothing more snug than baggy jammy pants and frankly, to skip the family shindig tomorrow…bring on the wood chipper. I just know with that little space and all those people packed in there, me all hopped on on hormonal mood surges and cramps…It’s gonna blow herds of goats.

I would really love to view Thanksgiving in a positive light, but ya know, it’s just always been my least favorite holiday, even as a kid. Stupid parades. Too much food. Too many people. Idiotic ball games. BOOOOORING. As an adult forced to participate same as I was forced as a child “for the family” “because it’s normal” I find my resentment has grown immensely. Then I feel bitchy cos at least I have a family who cares enough to cook and gather round and blah fucking blah. My mom and sis make it such a big deal, always with too much food, spending so much they’ll starve for the next week, then griping about the exhaustion of cooking and…Ugh, new tradition, please, for fuck’s sake. How about um…I do love my mom’s homemade dressing but beyond that..I think I’d be just as happy with a salisbury steak tv dinner. I prefer calm and lame to noisy, upsetting and tasty. Since age 10, Thanksgiving, for me, has always been about how to suffer as long as socially required to count as polite, then escape with my sanity in tact and my brain not in a comatose state.

Sorry if it’s your holiday, that’s cool and all. Just not for me. Aside from Halloween I find all holidays pretty dissatisfying. I’d love to say that’s the depression but really…once my family broke apart at Thanksgiving that one year…No more. Fuck it all. I have two factions of family, always at odds, and I am sick of being in the middle at age 42 on holidays. Sick of mom bashing dad, dad bashing mom, them bashing me. I just wanna yell WE ARE ALL ASSHOLES AND WE SUCK, CAN WE JUST GET OUR DOGGY BAGS AND LEAVE NOW THAT WE’VE FULFILLED THE DUTY OF APPEARING?

I have tried so very hard not to view it that way. But even when it was with my first husband’s family rather than mine…it still sucked. It’s that “outside the bubble” thing. If I excelled at small talk and being socially comfortable, I’d be a barfly.

Yes, I have my grump on this week, I am a bad bad woman all full of venom and darkness and why, it’s probably even my own fault I have depression cos I just deserve it for being so undamnedgrateful for Thanksgiving and having a family.


My mood hid pitch black earlier. No trigger. It just went there. And I’ve spent hours trying to climb out of that abyss, determined to plaster on that fake face for my kid cos I don’t want to taint the holidays for her even if no one gave a fuck about tainting them for me. Of course, it won’t matter how hard I try to be a good mom. My mother will inevitably find a way to criticize my parenting. Oh and now dad and his crew say they may not come til the evening, which means I will get to hear about how there’s all that food and how dare they be so rude as to have other plans and…

I think I am within my rights to feel some dread here. My family is a damned broken record.

And I guess I am, too, but I don’t utter a word I don’t feel deep down in my bones. I am genuine. Genuinely fucked up. Busted, bent, broken.

Repair is possible. Failure is inevitable. I accept this fact. Don’t like it. Fight it tooth and nail. It is what it is.

So I am gonna skip the shower and curl up in fort blankie and kick my own ass for being in too much pain to stop and buy more painkiller today. Huh? Yeah, right?

I would be so much more thankful if my family were the kind that served wine and such with meals. It makes everyone so much more tolerable, including me.

Happy Fangsgiving from Venom-Miss.