Diary of stable, responsible and wholesome lifestyle choices


I just came back from a jolly trip to bury something in the woods.
Since my only shovel had been forgotten in the oblivion of some coworkers cellar I had to use a pancake turner :neutral_face::neutral_face:


Dream log:
Probably inspired by a conversation I had yesterday I dreamt about how I would simply eat someone who goes heavily on my nerves IRL.
I didn’t felt nearly as bad as I probably should have.


I asked Marquis Leraje if he wants me to do something in return for his last-minute service.
“Just sit down and eat some popcorn.”
I think, I can do this.


TMW a customer is asking you if you could perform magick and you’re like “Nah…:slightly_smiling_face:” and he answers “Well, maybe you SHOULD learn it, then! It could come in handy one day!”


Dear next life, please make me a sheperd on a lonely island on Iceland or something the next time.
Thank you.


All I ever wanted was something that I have never seen.


Things I am grateful for:
Cinnamon Whisky
That one brick with my name on it that my patron just randomly throws in my face whenever I get ahead of myself too fast.


Another update (almost forgot about that, heh): A few days ago I fished a colourful letter from a debt collection company for my landlord out of the mailbox.


Today I noticed a poor little bee that laid itself to die on my windowsill. It stumbled and crept until it didn’t moved at all anymore. The poor thing was dead, then. When I looked away for a few seconds it vanished like it was some kind of bee Lazarus that made its way to the world of the living again. Of course thats not possible, the little fellow is dead and out but it left me wondering if it was even there from the very beginning or if I just imagined the death of a bee.


On a different note: today I could clearly feel hands caressing my face/head while I was at work for approx 10-15 minutes. That was really weird.


Lonely housewife looks for last nights party.
Had a blast in last nights dream but now I’m feeling hungover.


In last nights dream my heart got extracted via surgery. Instead of a red gross bleeding sack of tissue they retrieved an anatomically correct blue heart made of porcelain.
I buried it somewhere under a beautiful summer meadow at the break of dawn.
The part on my torso where they extracted the heart from feels sore now.


Long cringey and lachrymose post ahead, but I really couldn’t help it,okay? :slight_smile:

Today it would have been two years since the time I almost never met you again.
Two years ago a small white mini truck brought you to the local animal shelter; they found you on a deserted scrap heap somewhere far away in Romania and decided to give your fluffy ass a chance before local dog catchers could trade your soon to-be dead body for a bottle of cheap liquor or whatever they got paid there for their “job”.

You were in a terrible shape; you were way too thin and your fur was crusty with blood and dirt since you refused to let anyone near you to give you a bath or to treat your wounds properly. When the shelter guys put a leash around you and gave said leash to me you were almost “painted” with blue sanitizer from head to toe. They couldn’t tell me much about you back then, only that you are not leash trained and that I shouldn’t let you near other dogs.

I almost gave up immediately on you the very second we left the shelter for a walk.

You almost strangled yourself on the leash, you ran into every bramble you could probably find and you would cry out like a wounded child every time I tried to touch you to free you from shrubbery or a tangled leash.

I dislocated my shoulder in order to hold you back from killing another dog that just passed by without even looking at you. You were dead serious about that “killing other dogs”-thing until the very end,I would discover.
After we were both traumatized from this “experience” I decided that you weren’t my cup of tea, to say it politely.

A few weeks had passed and I discovered that your "solitary confinement" would be extended beyond the point of "settling down"; you were just too dangerous to get integrated into one of the "packs".

One of your caregivers told me that you were diagnosed with an aggressive lung cancer and that you would receive chemotherapy to buy you some more time (you must have been approx. 10 years old around that time but nobody could say for sure). She also told me that they don’t have high hopes for you finding a new forever home and that you had almost no visitors due to your problematic nature.

The chemotherapy took its toll on you; you couldn’t hold in most of the food any longer(one way or another) and you lost your fur in patches.
Out of some weird feeling of guilt I decided to spend more time with you and it was a nightmare almost every time, again and again. I was surprised how your joy of having a walk (or human attention in general) turned the very second into bloodlust when another dog just breathed in your general direction several feet away. I sacrificed some trousers and shirts and sometimes even a small amount of skin because of that (long live the tetanus shot!).

Since you couldn’t hold in your food for a longer period of time and since of your strict diet (look, who is allergic to almost everything that throws a shadow!) you craved for food or anything that COULD BE food which lead to funny quests to the vet once in a while.
And boi, did you had a pull! Every time we went out and about you just pulled and pulled and pulled me on that leash behind you until your body grew sore from the harness.

You know what made me really sad? That you just didn’t know how to be petted. The first few times you flinched away from every touch.

When you discovered that receiving a scratch here and there wasn’t all that bad you pulled off a really weird “dance” around the hand that stroked your fur; you just had no fucking clue that you could stay still and relax as well.

You had no fucking clue about most stuff, in general. You never learned that you could play with stuff. You never learned how to communicate with other dogs and you surely never learned the difference between a garbage can or your food (I tell you the difference: 70 bucks a month and then some). And you never learned how to receive treats right out of the hand (a full set of fingers wasn’t on your list of important things a human should have,no?).

Something interesting happened. I learned how to read you. I noticed all the big and small patterns that made you lose your shit in mere seconds.
I learned how to use my own body posture to keep you from lunging at the next poor dog (or car or helicopter or…). I learned how to put my trust into your body language and how to use the big or small hints to maneuver us both out of potencial dangerous situations.
You transformed from a really confused and aggressive bundle of awkwardness into a less confused aggressive yet happy and joyful bundle of awkwardness.
When they decided that you were still too problematic and too old and too ill to be handed over to a random family they put you into a more hidden tract of the shelter (which was sad because literally no visitor would ever see how happy and excited you would always be when someone with a leash came into your compound and how you had to “dance” off that energy first before we got started).

I enjoyed the walks with you, I really did. I enjoyed how you would always look back at me, as if to check if I was still there. I enjoyed how you would “wait” for me to make a move until you walked further. I enjoyed how you would always stop at random yet designated “snack stations” in the forest where I would feed you with carrots (the only thing you were allowed to eat besides your special treatment food). And I enjoyed how you wouldn’t let go from cuddle sessions during the walk, how you squeezed your head under my arm to get some extra closeness.
That was nice, wasn’t it? I remember one particular day in December 2017, when we would walk through a wintery forest, thick snow coming from the sky and nothing made a sound except for the muffled sounds your paws and my shoes made in the thick and perfect blanket of white. That was perfection and I will always remember how silent and peaceful that day was and how I glad I was that it was you and me.

In May 2018 they decided to stop the chemo therapy and to give you a surgery. They extracted a huge tumor from out of your lung area but they weren’t able to extract it completely.
I spend the whole day after that surgery in your compound, sitting there and reading a book while you would recover from the anesthesia. They patched up your throat really roughly, it looked horrible and you felt horrible, I suppose.
A few days later the stitches were gone and a huge and deep gash in your neck took its place (it looked like someone tried to slice your head off and failed, tbh). You couldn’t leave the surgery wound alone so they decided to take out the stitches so you wouldn’t damage that area further (the wound was really big and a “cone of shame” on that area would have made it worse). You weren’t allowed to go out in order to keep the wound as clean as possible and that wound had to be cleaned up and washed out with medicine a few times a day. I was really surprised about how stoic you would endure this procedure (we could even leave the muzzle off during it) and how you enjoyed that kind of “extra attention” that shitty situation gave you. You were in good spirits and so was I.

And indeed, the next months were just normal and good. To that point I couldn’t imagine a life without you and your quirks anymore. I couldn’t take you in (our landlord wasn’t exactly animal friendly) but I planned on taking you with me when we would make our move in summer 2019, so you could spend your old days in your own real home at last. To that day no one else asked for you or had interest in you.
That plan never came to be, unfortunately. It was November 6th last year, when I got the call.
You had a routine check up at the vet, they took an MRI to take look at your lung.
Not only the tumor came back to its old glory and even further (they said you had maybe 20% of lung capacity left). It puked out a shit load of little other tumor babies into your spine and stomach as well, out of pure joy to be alive again, I guess.
There was just no chance. They decided to never let you wake up again from your anesthesia and euthanized you on the spot that day. The vet told me that you were a happy little cuddle bug right before the anesthesia kicked in.

That photograph right here was taken two days before you went away forever. I am really glad that we took it (amongst a lot of other pictures that day). I still miss you and I will miss you forever, my dearest ass hat.


Last night was wild.
Unfortunately I am not allowed to talk about the circumstances that led to it (and don’t worry, it sounds even too unbelievable to myself when I think about it).

What I am allowed to tell is: instead of going to bed right away I used the time to meditate. It was a normal meditation (the one I couldn’t execute the whole evening because neighbours and stuff) , I was normally relaxed when I ended it and got to bed right afterwards.

What happened then was that I basically died the whole night over and over and over in every way possible. And it wasn’t by accident, each time I got murdered by a group of contract killers and they were pretty much after me in every dream sequence. First I had no fucking idea what was going on or why I wasn’t able to gain control over my dream setting.

But then it dawned upon me (with a little help from external-internal forces) that this was necessary and it has to be done now or never. When I realized in what kind of situation I was actually in I seeked that group actively out in every new dream sequence in order to find death in some way or another.
I felt liberated and safe and now I feel refreshed and nice.


Stop cutting onions freaking ninjas…!!


It ain’t over: I’m not done.


Todays meditation brought me an interesting visual effect:
A white box made out of pure light that got opened above my head. Its content were balls made out of black energy that flew right into my body.


This song is stuck in my head for several days,now.

Six bullets strike the target, but the seventh belongs to the Evil One, who guides it where he pleases.


You can die everywhere :upside_down_face:


The thing is…
Somebody told me today that I need to “let my soul speak” in order to lead a balanced life.
No, Claudia. My soul wants to gulp down a beer and wants to shut the fuck up in the evening.