Your Midweek Update for 04/07/21

Because there is no such thing as actual time off in my life, everything has to go to shit once again.

Monday was my anniversary with James (13 glorious years) so we decided to go out and celebrate. We booked at a local restaurant – because we haven’t been out in a long time and we’re forced to choose between stimulating the economy and not dying (I really should be killing for public officials, it’s just so messy and people tend to care) – and then went for a drive outside the city with a delivery man tied up in the back.

I do love when my husband takes control and tells me how to kill someone, but I felt bad after we’d removed the tips of his fingers and head, and buried his corps vertically in the woods over a dead rabbit, so we took his final delivery to the person’s house and left it on their doorstep.

It’s not their fault their driver never made it.

(Yes, of course, we destroyed his phone before taking him out of town, I know those trackers aren’t the most accurate but it still might be a little suspicious to see his little car driving past the city limits)

Anyways, things were going well, we might have nearly gotten pulled over for indecent exposure a few blocks from the house, they were going really well. And then we got home.

Obviously, we left Casey at home. She could have left if she’d wanted, but we warned her against going out to hunt without checking in first. Since we’d heard nothing all evening, we assumed she hadn’t gone out.

But when we got home, the front door was open and the living room was in shambles. We found blood on the doorhandle and on the carpet. As we were looking around, a police car pulled up because the neighbours had reported noises of someone in distress.

Casey was officially reported missing on Monday night. We’ve heard no word since.

I can’t stop thinking that we’ve been here before. Another girl, another killer, another life out of my control. Why can we never have calm for one fucking minute?

We’ve taught her well enough that she is more than capable of taking care of herself. So what the hell happened? Her wallet and phone and keys are still up in her room and though there were sounds of distress, no one saw anything.

How could no one see anything?

How could you hear someone crying out for help and do absolutely nothing? My little girl is out there and I feel so fucking useless.

This can’t be happening again.

Please, god, not again.

I don’t think I could take it.

Please, please, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Your Midweek Update for 03/31/21

The search for Casey’s mother continues. Strangely, looking for a woman who’s been in hiding for nearly a decade is not a simple task. But we’re about to find out who’s more stubborn: a woman nearly murdered by her daughter and now on the run for her life, or the adopted mother who happens to be the most prolific serial killer across two centuries?

Am I using that word correctly? “Prolific”? I don’t know when this blog became about grammatic rants but I can use my platform however I please so if you don’t like it, you can leave.

I’m just kidding. I know where all of you live.

According to Google, “prolific” means: producing much fruit or foliage or many offspring which may not be the most accurate description of what I do.

It also means: “present in large numbers or quantities; plentiful” which is more accurate. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve murdered. One of the nice things about my journals is that they were a literal record of my kills so I always knew what my number was. The bad thing about my journals is that they were a literal record of my kills. Losing them was not a bad thing in the grand scheme of things. Losing possession of them for a time was a VERY bad thing, however, so I will not be restarting. It does mean that I don’t know what my number is. I suppose it doesn’t matter.

If the public ever discovered what I am, they will never be able to track or claim how many people I’ve murdered over the years. Even if I confessed to everything, they could never verify it all. I’ll be on one of those Wikipedia lists as someone who ~probably~ murdered ~at least~ 600 people but no one will ever know. Not ever me.

Did you know I once chopped off a man’s head on a high angle, severing from the top of his spine (the actual top of his spine with the little ball thing). And then I split open his back like a zipper and cut until I reached bone. I peeled off his skin and muscle and nerves around his ribs (which too forever, that shit is tough to cut through, let me tell you), and I pulled out all of his organs through his back and through them in the river. Each individual organ. Then I tossed the rest of his skeleton over a waterfall – because James and I were on vacation with kids at the time. Do you think if I lived near a waterfall, I wouldn’t be there every damn night tossing body parts? I burnt the head before tossing it over just to make identification a little challenging for the coroner but not impossible.

I don’t know what happened to that body. I don’t know where any of those parts ended up or if it was even discovered in its entirety. No one will ever know for certain, just how successful I really was.

Some people might think that taking a life – taking hundreds of lives – makes me psychotic. Makes me evil. And they may be right. I’m certainly no saint (although saints are highly overrated and always worse than people let us believe) but I never wanted to be.

All I ever wanted to be was exactly who I was. Who I am. I wanted freedom and to live my life unapologetically. If I had the uncontrollable desire to restore old books, then I would have crafted a life that made restoring old books the most incredible and successful thing in the world.

But I’m a killer. It’s who I was meant to be. And I’m fucking great at it. It makes me happy.

I would rather have that than anything else in the world.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Your Midweek Update for 03/24/21

I will make this very brief because I just watched the series finale of The Good Place and I am currently contemplating my own existence and place in the universe. That was supposed to be a funny show. I did not expect to have so many existential crises. Next on my list of shows I’ve been meaning to watch but never got around to it: Santa Clarita Diet. Cannibals seems much more my speed. If that show makes me feel things, I’m going to be very put out.

Honestly, the only thing of note is that I killed a woman with her toe.

Admittedly, that was not my intention. It was very cool – don’t get me wrong – but I was doing another experiment to see how long I could remove someone’s limbs and keep them alive. As you’ll recall, I kept that man alive when he was only half a body for over a day, but that was a sort of hard and fast test. This time, I wanted to see if the level of pain would change if I removed a body part one piece at a time rather than all at once. And I wanted to see how many body parts it took for someone to die.

So, I cut off her toe.

Like before, I removed the toe at the knuckle with a clean cut and cauterized the wound immediately, there was very little blood. I left her for an hour or so and then I came back and removed another toe. Surprisingly enough, by the time I’d removed all ten toes, she was barely crying. However, she screamed just as loudly when I burned the tenth as she did with the first. Severing the nerve endings versus killing them elicits different levels of pain.

The more you know. Which is literally why I’m doing these experiments. To improve my knowledge of human anatomy and its response to pain and death. As you well know.

After I removed her toes, I left her to go to work and she seemed fine. When I came to check on her afterwards, she seemed disoriented and had vomited all over herself but I didn’t think anything of it. The girl had just lost all her toes, I’d be more concerned if she didn’t vomit. I watered her, I cleaned her up, I cut off her right ankle. Everything seemed fine.

A few hours later, I went to remove her left ankle and I noticed that her skin was unusually blotchy. There were red pricks stretching up to her knee, like little blood spots. I’ve never seen a reaction like that before. But, again, I didn’t think much of it and took her other ankle.

Two days later, she was dead.

The red marks had spread up her legs and across her stomach. And the spots had gotten bigger and turned purple. She was unbelievable gaunt and definitely thinner than when I’d left her – but, again, most of this was stuff I expected. But I still couldn’t understand why she’d died so I googled her symptoms.

The bitch died of sepsis.

It’s so unfair.

I wanted to be the one to kill her but she got a fucking toe infection and took that from me.

How rude is that?

I ran over a cyclist and chopped off his head on the way home but it wasn’t as satisfying as getting to really dig into a victim.

Oh well, tomorrow is another week. All we can do is keep trying, right?

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Your Midweek Update 03/17/21

I told Casey the truth.

I know we were debating the merits of whether or not she deserved to know about her mother, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t keep it from her. It goes through my mind constantly: if I had told Sandra and Jason the truth from the beginning, would things have turned out differently?

Would Sandra have gone off on her own and run straight into danger? Would Jason have left his entire life behind to get away from me? Would I still have them? Would I have Casey? James brought her into our lives because I was lonely and I needed someone. Where would that little girl be if he hadn’t found her and brought her home? Where would I be if I hadn’t lost two children and gained another?

I couldn’t keep this a secret from her.

James and I sat her down after her classes were done and we told her everything we knew about her, and her mother, and the circumstances surrounding her father’s death. I asked her if she’d killed her father like she’d killed her foster father and she said “No. I stabbed my foster father in the chest but I slit my father’s throat.”

She’s got me there.

All this time, I was worried that learning her mother was alive would make her want to run back into her arms and leave us behind. It didn’t occur to me until later, that she might want to finish the job.

Casey does want to find her birth mother, but only so she can make sure she kills her properly. She asked for my help. I suppose I would want to meet the mother of my child. I just never imagined it going down this way.

The trouble is: I have no idea where her mother is. We decided to make it a family project to search. We’re going through hospital records, old contacts, police reports, anything we can get our hands on with a bit of patience and a skeleton key. We’re going to find out what happened to her mother after she left that hospital. And then we’re going to kill her.

If we find her by the time the weather gets warmer, maybe we can take a family vacation. Just the three of us on the road, trying desperately to recreate that first road trip that ended in disaster. Sun, slaying, and family.

(I spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to figure out an alliteration for ‘family’ but I gave up. Life is imperfect)

For the first time in a while, I feel hope. Genuine hope that I can put the past behind me.

And I’ve just jinxed myself. But the hope is still there.

For now.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Your Midweek Update for 03/10/21

For all my skills with a blade, I am terrified of giving haircuts. James typically likes his hair short so I just give him a buzzcut every few months. I’ve only nicked him once and that was early on in our marriage when I was used to shaving past the scalp (I completely forgot about razors when doing my “skinning someone alive” experiment. I’ll have to save that for the next one).

I hate my hair at this length. Too long to wear down – especially when I’m in the Murder Den – too short to wear up. So it just… exists. Hate it. I’m not going to get a haircut because I’m being a responsible citizen but it’s still frustrating not to be able to do little things like get a haircut.

When I kill, I do it because I want to – I need to (the line between need and want is blurry here) – but it’s not because I refuse to be a decent human being and follow the mandated by-laws meant to keep people safe.

Am I saying I’m better than people who refuse to wear a mask? Absolutely.

I try to keep politics and shit out of this blog (the more you know about the world I live in, the easier it’ll be to find me… despite, keeping a blog diary about my personal life) but you know how I feel about being denied basic things that I need and want. I tend to get a little crazy.

So maybe, I spent the weekend with two middle-aged men who thought they didn’t need a mask while at the grocery store, explaining to them why it’s important for everyone to do their part. And maybe I explained that by cutting off tiny piece of their face and hands until they bled to death.

Typically, the cause of death with my work is “exsanguination”. Your body loses enough blood, and it’ll just give up. Unless it’s poison. Then it could be a blood clot, heart failure, brain… malfunction.

Look, I didn’t go to medical school. If I did, I’d be a lot easier to catch because they’d be looking for someone with surgical precision. My lack of medical knowledge will be my saving grace. That said, I am much more skilled than the average serial killer but it’s more of a “learn as you go” skill. Which is, frankly, how I prefer to learn.

Practical application is always more fun than theory. I was never made for the classroom.

And I was not made for hair that is this length and impossible to manage.

Maybe I should just shave it off.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Your Mid-Week Update for 03/03/21

I wonder how long a person can survive without their lower half.

Now, in order to measure that properly, we need to determine the circumstances under which this person lost their limbs. If it’s slow torture – like taking a bone saw to each leg and gagging them so their screams and cries don’t filter outside the storage room (colloquially named the “murder den”).

Side question: am I using “colloquially” properly? I feel like I’m not. But I also just… HATE English grammar. So much.

Anyways. If I were to use a bone saw to slowly remove a woman’s limbs, their death would be quite quick. Blood loss is imminent and their suffering would be great, but short. I don’t want short.

So, what other options are there?

I had a theory that if I could remove from the waist quickly enough, I could then place the person upright and use their bodyweight to hold all of their limbs together. This was not the case and they just leaked out all over the floor. Death was definitely slower than just hanging them from the ceiling and timing their exsanguination, but it still wasn’t stellar.

What if I added heat?

I had to get James’ help for this because I am strong but I’m not insane – I’m also 43 and not an idiot. This part of the experiment took a very long time (and two of my best rags because he bit clean through one and bled through another when they split their tongue. What a shame) but it was worth it to finally get an answer to my question.

We turned on the iron to its maximum – which we already know is more than hot enough to cauterize a wound – and got my thinnest saw. Clean cuts are a necessity for this kind of surgery. Between the two of us, we sliced and burned along the man’s torso, circling his middle until we’d cut through the center.

Like a melon.

Think of it like slicing a melon and wiping as you go to keep the juices from spilling out.

What we were left with was the upper half of a human body still pumping blood and showing brain activity. Poor lamb came in and out of consciousness throughout the whole ordeal. I imagine the pain was excruciating given the tears and rags they went through. But at the end of it all, they were still alive. The skin essentially puckered under itself as the flesh was burned so it closed itself off at the bottom. It was not a colour I’d ever seen on a human being before (almost burgundy with bits of white and green seeping out) which was actually really cool.

We kept him hydrated – though they threw up every few hours so it was difficult to keep up. They survived a day. Well, probably a day. When he left at the end of the night, they were alive. James and I took turns going to check on them, staying for a few hours at a time before trading places. Sometime between switching shifts the next night, they died.

This time, they didn’t die from blood loss, so I count it as an improvement. We talked about doing an autopsy to determine the actual cause of death but honestly, I’m an amateur mortician at best. My knowledge of anatomy is better than most, but I wouldn’t be able to properly diagnose his cause of death.

So, we decided to leave the body for the coroner a few cities over. A case like this would obviously make local news so it would be easy to keep track as their investigation ran on. I hope they can give us more information.

If you can’t learn from your missteps, what was the point?

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Your Mid-Week Update for 02/24/21

I love lying. My entire life is a lie. When my co-workers ask me what I did over the weekend, I don’t tell them I stuffed boiling rags in a man’s mouth and spent three hours peeling his skin off with a potato peeler until he bled to death from every orifice. I tell them that I spent some time cooking with my family and watched Christmas movies which had been replaying on the Hallmark channel.

It’s such an odd genre, if you think about it. A near year-round obsession with falling in love over the holidays, only to reveal that the attraction that brought them together was fabricated by magic. I’m not against romantic movies – or maybe I am – but I wonder why it’s February, and some people are still trying to relive the glory days of December 2020.

Because that was such a riot for everyone involved.

The point I’m trying to make is: I don’t mind stretching the truth or straight up fibbing for the fun of it. I have spent the majority of my life lying to everyone around me (my parent, my children, my coworkers, my friends). Sometimes, though, I hate it. More importantly, I hate lying to the two people in my life whom I have always been able to tell the truth.

James has been my constant companion for nearly 13 years – holy shit – and I don’t like lying to him. So I don’t. We don’t keep secrets from each other. Except for Casey who is a secret all to herself. Keeping things from her – things that affect her – feels wrong. This girl has put her absolute trust in us. Not to mention, there’s a fear in what she might do if she ever found out that we were lying to her.

But is it really lying?

She’s never asked about her parents; she barely talks about her life in the foster system. And I won’t push her to do so. But I think she would want to know. I would want to know.

Can you imagine if my mother had disappeared when I was a kid and I only learned she was alive a decade later? I think I would be a very different person. Or maybe I wouldn’t be. Maybe we were always going to be these people and we were just lucky enough to find each other so we don’t feel alone.

I tend to flip flop on the whole ‘Nurture vs Nature’ argument. To look at my sister and me, you wouldn’t be surprised to learn that we come from the same parent (that we grew up in the same household. At the same time, I can’t imagine being anyone else.

Maybe telling Casey about her mother won’t change anything. I’d like to think she’s happy here, she certainly seems happy for the way she eagerly describes the woman she gutted while going for groceries the other day. Would knowing the truth change her?

And, of course, there is the selfish little paranoia that she’ll lash out when she finds that out that she’s been lied to. I know this girl: quiet and subtle are not her best traits as a killer. Though her aggression has never been directed at me, I can’t presume I’d be safe if that were the direction she took.

I think I know Casey. I think I know James. But I am living proof that you can never truly know anyone.

Is it bad that I’d rather watch another Hallmark movie than talk to my daughter?

I know it’s bad that I’d rather try to skin someone’s elbow with a carrot peeler. The flesh is so tough. And for what? You bleed the same as anywhere else.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Your Mid-Week Update for 02/17/21

Casey is a lot of things, but subtlety has never been her strong suit. From her first kill – even before I knew it was hers – I knew she was made to be loud and strong. I love that. I love that she has that adventurous spirit, a need to be independent. She’ll need that later in life but right now, it means she frequently gets written up in school for talking back or ditching school (which, seems less rebellious when it’s all performed online).

At least there are no trips to the principal’s office. Just Zoom meetings were the wi-fi “conveniently” cuts out after twenty minutes. I don’t have time for people who feel the need to micromanage children. So long as they aren’t being arrested and they’re learning something, what should it matter if their homework is late, or if they want to work with their camera off, or they (in my opinion, rightfully) call out their teacher for making them write a paper on family history – a rather insensitive topic in this and other houses.

I know who Casey’s mother is. Not sure if I talked about it last year, when I found out who she was – not James’ daughter but a girl escaped from a juvenile detention on a charge of attempted murder. Faking her death and changing her name was easy. Taking her across the country to be with us and create a new life was easy. Knowing who she was and keeping that secret from both of them, has been incredibly difficult.

Casey’s family history is a little unclear. The reason she was imprisoned in the first place is because she was convicted of stabbing her foster father “for the fun of it” (as per the court transcript). Unfortunately, he recovered and named her as his assailant and she was given no opportunity to learn, only punished for her crime.

Apparently, this was her fourth foster home in six years, consistently cited as “difficult to manage”. I don’t know what child they were “managing” but that little girl has been a dream. Although, I suppose I shouldn’t call her a little girl any more, she’s sixteen now. It’s hard to believe the girl we brought into our home all those years ago is growing up.

I can’t lose another one.

Anyways, her mother was apparently murdered by her father when she was eight and then he killed himself in front of her, but the notes from the lead detective on the case suggest that he wasn’t 100% certain that was the case. He believed that Casey had slit her father’s throat while he slept and when her mother woke up, she killed her as well. It’s a reasonable theory (and one I may be inclined to believe) but she was an eight-year-old girl, and it was a lot easier to imagine the alternative. But I know the truth: my girl has always been a killer.

It took some digging, but I found something that was left out of the local papers at the time. Her mother survived. She had lost so much blood and was in a near-vegetative at the time of the investigation, so the police declared it a murder-suicide, instead of waiting for her to potentially recover, and they took Casey away.

According to the hospital records, she woke up a few months later and checked herself out of the hospital – and by that, I mean she snuck out during a nurse rotation – and no one has heard from her since.

I found all of this with a few months of research and seducing an administrative assistant for access to patient records (I was very bored on my road trip with Heather, and the hospital was on the way). I can’t help but wonder what Casey’s mother might be able to find with a few years and a lot more free time.

But if that’s the case: why hasn’t she contacted anyone? Not the police, not her daughter; as far as I know, no one has heard from this woman in nearly nine years. Why?

This girl – this sixteen-year-old living in my house – has my name and my trust and my love. But I am not her mother, and a part of me is wondering if I should tell her the truth.

You didn’t see the look on her face when she asked me about her family history project. The sadness in her eyes, thinking that she had nothing and no one. I told her to use us (James and me) as the branches of her tree, but should I have told her what I know about her real history? Would it hurt her or help her? Is it even my decision to make? Her mother disappeared and never came back for her, why should we feel obligated to give her anything?

Keeping secrets in this family has always been disastrous and I can’t imagine this will be any different.

Part of me is hoping that she won’t care. That she’ll tell me that we are her family and she wants nothing to do with the life she had before. Another part of me is terrified she’ll go off in search of her mother and I’ll never see her again. The truth is: I don’t know what will happen.

She has always been her own person – defiant and curious and loud – and I have to face the fact that nothing I say or do will stop her from doing exactly what she wants to do.

Is it wrong to admit that I’m scared?

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe                    

Your Mid-Week Update for 02/10/21

English is such a strange language. We don’t have a word that describes the butterflies in your stomach, we willfully chose not to called a “Pineapple” “Anana”, but we have a word that means both “disembowelment” and “eye surgery”.

Needless to say, I’m very glad that my search history is not tracked in any way. I don’t think I could handle the embarrassment.

On the plus side: my murder den is officially up and running. I took James on a tour of the place last week and we christened it before heading out to find our first victim. It seemed only right that I let him choose the inaugural human whose life whom I would experiment upon.

I also hate English grammar – in case you never noticed before. It’s just ridiculous. So long as the other person understand what you’re saying, who cares if I end my sentence with a preposition or dangle a participle? I’d much rather end lives and dangle bodies.

…

I am so sorry. The joke was right there and demanded that I make it. Please keep reading.

I’ve always found it very sexy when James picks out victims for me. It’s a kind of foreplay, it helps to build the anticipation. Over the years, I’ve also discovered how much James likes to watch me work. I’m grateful he hasn’t done too much hands-on work – I like to think I’m keeping him as safe as possible by keeping his hands clean (relatively speaking). It also means there’s a sexual tension weaved into our murders which I used to find off-putting.

Look, I know a lot of people think there’s a sexual element to serial murder. And for a lot of murderers, there absolutely is. But not for me. Genuinely. I don’t find sexual satisfaction from gutting someone. Fascination, curiosity, satisfaction, joy. But the only thing I find sexy is the way my husband comes up from behind and whispers his orders in my ear. The way I’ll drive slowly down the street until he leans across my body to point at the stranger coming out of a shop and definitively says: “him”.

The way I can feel his eyes on me as I stumble across the street, taking on the guise of a woman in distress, knowing that my husband is watching me. Only the two of us know our little secret. I’ll admit, I get a shiver of anticipation upon seeing his smirk of pride when I successfully pull the stranger into the back of the car, closing the trap door.

Many times, James won’t dictate how I kill or what actions I take once I’ve t successfully captured my victim. He knows that this is my element and he trusts my expertise (which is an aphrodisiac in and of itself) but every once in a while, I like letting him take complete control.

Tonight was not this night.

Tonight (and by “tonight” I mean Saturday night), he helped me drag my victim into the murder den and then sat back and watched while I went about my work.

Which brings me back to my hatred for the English language. I went and Googled “evisceration” for instructions on how to disembowel someone and found information on removing an eyeball and naturally got distracted. I never knew I had a dream of removing someone’s eyeball with an ice cream scoop but now I do.

It feels nice to achieve my dreams. Even small ones.

This year has been so shitty when it comes to feeling a sense of freedom and normalcy so it felt like a treat to myself. I got to have a night of fun with my husband, a stranger, and an ice cream scoop – and, just, so much blood.

So much blood.

I love it.

My point is…

Make yourself attainable goals and English is a stupid language.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Your Mid-Week Update for 02/03/21

I hate technology.

Obviously, that’s a very broad statement and patently untrue – you wouldn’t be reading these if I hated technology on a fundamental level. But sometimes…I miss dial-up. Cassette tapes. VCRs. Oregon Trail.

Mostly, I hate when my laptop gives up on functioning properly for no apparent reason. I was on the phone with tech support for two hours yesterday and they had no idea what was wrong with it – just that it would no longer read USBs (despite everything functionally normally). It’s not like I can just take it in to my local repair shop and have the so-called ‘expert’ look at it. There’s some high-level encryption software on here that I barely understand because my sister is the one who installed it in the first place.

I like to think I have above-average knowledge of technology as part of the many skills I picked up in my years as a functioning psychopath, but apparently, this seemingly very basic error has stumped everyone.

It was not how I wanted to spend my Tuesday night.

I wanted to spend my night showing James the newly renovated Murder Den – we finally settled on a name. I got the last of the equipment moved in on Monday night and I added the finishing touches then. There are tarps, bleaches, medical-grade disinfectant, various tools (from scalpel to table saw), an ice box, sound-proofing, chairs, tables. I even got a solar panel on the roof so I could charge my phone while I work. All in all, I’m very proud of the work we put into this. I’m very excited to get started. In the meantime, I nipped out for a quick kill over the weekend. Just to keep myself satisfied until the real work could start.

I was feeling a little old school, so I drove around until I witnessed a man walking down a busy street without his mask on, and so I followed him until he turned off into a residential area. It was easy to coat him into my car – seriously, men you should not be so trusting of strange women; either get to the same fear-level as women, or be better people – and I just drove off. I took him to some farmland outside the city and pulled off the road, just out of sight. Obviously, he tried to fight me but Ketamine works very fast. 5.4mL of Ketamine Hydrochloride injected into the exterior carotid artery and he’s gone in minutes, hallucinating all the way.

‘Special K’ isn’t used as a club drug as often as it once was. And unfortunately, the injection site means I can’t make it look like an overdose.

But I can burn the body in the field and, because it’s so cold and dark, no one will find his burnt remains for at least a few months. I took special care to remove his eyes, teeth, ears, lips, and fingers before lighting everything on fire. Identification technology – like everything else – has come a long way since I started.

I’m learning so much about anatomy.

It’s nice to know that what is, essentially, a really involved hobby still brings me joy after all these years. That’s so rare to find something you’re truly passionate about in that way. In that way, I’m very blessed.

Still pissed about my laptop, though.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe