Last night I asked Microsoft Copilot to help me with an emotional problem and the response was better than I'd heard before from any person. 

(Sometimes,I think, that AI is just as good, if not better, than a real therapist. It could also be, though, that I felt more comfortable sharing more details with artificial intelligence than I would with a human being I know may very well judge.

I once was in a therapist's office, needing and wanting to take about lgbtq issues because I had no one else to talk with about them and as I looked around her office I saw tons of Christian and conservative-related images on her walls and desks. Immediately, I shut down and changed the reason I was there.)

This is how AI answered me:

I’m truly sorry to hear that you’ve been carrying this burden for so long. It’s understandable that you feel guilt and want to find a way to cope with these recurring dreams. Let’s explore some strategies that might help you find closure and alleviate the distress:

Name Your Guilt:

Acknowledge your feelings of guilt. Sometimes, simply recognizing and accepting our emotions can be a powerful step toward healing.

Take some quiet time for yourself. Reflect on what happened and write down the specific actions that make you feel guilty. Be objective and avoid adding your own judgments or interpretations.

Analyze the Dream:

Dive deeper into your recurring dreams. Consider seeking guidance from a therapist or counselor who can help you explore the underlying emotions and memories associated with the situation.

Are there unresolved issues or unexpressed feelings related to that time in your life? Understanding the root cause of your dreams may provide insights.

Learn from the Past:

While you can’t change the past, you can learn from it. Reflect on what you’ve learned since then and how you’ve grown as a person.

Understand that your actions were unintentional and driven by a lack of awareness. We all make mistakes, especially during our teenage years.

Gratitude and Self-Compassion:

Practice gratitude for the lessons you’ve gained from this experience. Be compassionate toward your younger self, knowing that you didn’t have the knowledge or understanding you do now.

Forgive yourself. You were doing your best with the information you had at the time.

Addressing Ruminating Thoughts:

Ruminating thoughts can intensify guilt. When you notice these thoughts, try to distract yourself. Call a friend, do chores, watch a movie, or engage in other activities.

Create an action plan: 

Break down your thoughts into smaller parts and take realistic steps to address them. Write down your plan and take one small step at a time.

Express Your Feelings:

While reaching out to your former classmate may not be appropriate, consider writing a letter (even if you don’t send it) expressing your remorse and explaining your perspective. Sometimes putting our feelings into words can be cathartic. (I think writing a letter is a good idea, actually sending it would be awful, stalkery and more self-serving than helpful or healing to the other person.)

Therapy and Support:

Consider seeking professional help. Trauma-focused therapy or counseling can provide a safe space to process emotions and develop coping skills.

Talking through your feelings with a therapist can help you find closure and release some of the emotional weight you’ve been carrying.

Remember that you were young and unaware of the impact your actions would have. It’s okay to forgive yourself and seek healing. You’ve already taken a brave step by acknowledging your feelings. Be kind to yourself as you work through this process. 

Make a Pro Blush

The dimly lit karaoke bar hummed with the buzz of alcohol-fueled conversations and the occasional off-key rendition of pop hits. It was the kind of place where dreams went to die, or at least that’s what Lily believed. She sat perched on a barstool, nursing her whiskey, her eyes scanning the room with a practiced detachment. The neon sign outside flickered, casting an eerie glow on the cracked leather upholstery.

Lily had seen it all. As a former escort, she’d danced with men who wore their loneliness like a badge of honor. They’d whispered sweet nothings in her ear, promising her the world, only to vanish into the night, leaving her with empty pockets and a heart as cold as the ice cubes clinking in her glass.

Tonight, she was just another face in the crowd—a woman with a past she wanted to forget and a future she wasn’t sure she deserved. The karaoke machine crooned out tunes, and Lily watched as people stumbled up to the stage, their liquid courage propelling them into the spotlight. She’d given up on love a long time ago, but she still had her voice. And so, when the familiar intro of “Bette Davis Eyes” began, she couldn’t resist.

Her heels clicked against the scuffed floor as she made her way to the stage. The microphone felt heavy in her hand, but as the first notes escaped her lips, something shifted. The room fell silent, and all eyes turned toward her. Lily closed her eyes, losing herself in the lyrics. For those few minutes, she wasn’t a jaded woman with a tarnished past; she was just a girl singing her heart out.

And then she saw him—a stranger leaning against the bar, his gaze fixed on her. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, and there was a hint of sadness in them. He didn’t look away when she met his stare; instead, he raised his glass in silent appreciation. Lily’s heart skipped a beat. Maybe, just maybe, this was different.

When the song ended, the applause was genuine. Lily stepped off the stage, her legs wobbly from both the whiskey and the adrenaline. The stranger was waiting for her, his smile tentative but sincere.

“Beautiful voice,” he said, his voice gravelly. “You made me forget about my own troubles for a moment.”

Lily chuckled. “That’s the magic of karaoke, isn’t it? Temporary escape.”

He extended his hand. “I’m Alex.”

“Lily,” she replied, surprised at how easily the words came. “What brings you here?”

He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “I heard a rumor that the woman singing ‘Bette Davis Eyes’ was the most intriguing person in the room.”

Lily’s heart fluttered. “Intriguing, huh? You don’t know the half of it.”

Alex studied her, his eyes searching. “Maybe I’d like to find out.”

And just like that, the walls Lily had built around her heart began to crumble. Maybe this was her chance—a fresh start, a new chapter. She glanced at the karaoke machine, its screen still displaying the song title. “Make a pro blush,” she murmured.

Alex chuckled. “Well, Lily, consider me intrigued.”

As they talked, Lily realized that maybe hope wasn’t such a dangerous thing after all. Perhaps, in the glow of the neon lights, she could find a love that didn’t come with an expiration date. And as she leaned in to kiss Alex, she wondered if this was her chance to rewrite her story—to make a pro blush and believe in second chances.

Note: The karaoke song “Bette Davis Eyes” by Kim Carnes is a classic hit from the 1980s, known for its sultry lyrics and memorable melody.

If you're looking for your next horror read, you can't go wrong with checking out 101 Horror Books to Read Before You're Murdered. Your TBR pile will grow exponentially! 

There is so much more I want to say about this book and not just because it has some terrific thoughts and recommendations on lgbtq+ reads. 

I had my second follow up appointment on Friday concerning my wrist. Except for when driving, I'm now not using my splint. And soon I will stop using it even for that.

My next medical appointment will include a bone density test. Both the ortho surgeon who originally saw me after I fell and the PA both suspect that I have osteoporosis. They both feel that the fall I described to them does not normally warrant the kind of injury I had.

This is not the first time I have heard the word osteoporosis in connection to my health. I gained 20 pounds during Covid, but in my 20s I was actually underweight a little bit and I didn't get my cycle for years.

I was told back then that I would be at risk for getting osteoporos if I didn't start getting my cycle regularly. Through acupuncture I was able to get my cycle again and get my health back to where it should've been. 

After that point through most of the rest of my 20s and my 30s and early 40s I ate well. I would fix healthy food and cook and bake and rarely ate out.

But in my mid to late 40s my anxieties started to flare up again pretty bad which affected my appetite and how I took care of myself. It was also in my late 40s that I started drinking regularly and I know that alcohol can also affect bone health.

When I fell and broke my wrist it made me think about the things that I needed to change. And my pre-op physical results only compounded that.

Where once I had extremely low blood pressure I now found I was on the borderline for high. And my blood sugar was also pretty bad, it turns out.

I realize now that I started gaining all my weight when I started drinking, and I'm hoping that now that I'm cutting back on drinking and eating better that I can lose the weight and reverse the damage that I've done to my body.

When I think back to my happiest time in my life, It was the late 90s. I was on my own for the first time and I had a pretty good thing going with my personal and professional life. I rarely had anxiety and I liked people so much

Now I find myself struggling to get through days at work so that I can be with my cat the rest of the time.

Don't get me wrong: I adore my cat. I consider him the love of my life, but I want to be so much more functional than I am.

I feel like a fraud and I don't know what the duck I'm doing. If people already can't see that, then they soon will, and that scares me so much

When I had my wrist surgery, which was now almost 7 weeks ago, the ortho surgeon prescribed me 40 OxyContin pills for pain. The label said take one every four hours, which was something I knew right from the start I was not going to do.

Move to today and I have three pills left. I am not panicking, but I am disappointed in myself that I've used nearly all of them, even if I only averaged about 4-5 a week, instead of 4-5 a day, as the suggested dose read.

I get 0 refills and I'm not panicking about that either. 

But I am going to be completely honest: I wish I did have a refill available. My pain is still chronic and (here is where I'm mortified) I like the way OxyContin makes me feel. 

I am not going to try and pursue getting more, though: I don't think that is an option and, more importantly, I don't want it to be an option.

My plan is go back to acupuncture, which I have used in the past to combat bad headaches and other kinds of pain.

As for the way oxy makes me feel: well, I was able to let go of my nightly glass (sometimes glasses) of wine after I fell and broke my wrist and I can let go of my fondness for the way I feel for a medicine I shouldn't have started taking in the first place. 

Bringing it home with me the day of the surgery, it almost felt like I had a loaded gun in my possession. I told myself I was going to toss it after the first four days, but instead I just held off on taking it and painstakingly saved it for only the days I could not bear the pain.

There are other ways to manage pain and anxiety (the bigger reason I found myself liking Oxy more than I should) and I am going to be find them and follow through, ideally in the most natural of ways.

 

I get this, way beyond any words I could ever express...it's from Vanity Fair magazine, in the early 1920s:

 

Sabotage 

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the sandy shores of Gilligan’s Island. The seven castaways—Gilligan, the Skipper, the Professor, Mary Ann, Ginger, Mr. Howell, and Mrs. Howell—had been stranded here for what felt like an eternity. 

But secretly, they reveled in their isolation.

Gilligan, the bumbling first mate, had grown fond of the simple life. No more deadlines, no more rat race. He’d become the island’s unofficial coconut expert, fashioning intricate sculptures out of the fibrous shells. He’d even taught the parrots to sing show tunes.

The Skipper, gruff and lovable, had found solace in the rhythm of the waves. He’d traded his captain’s hat for a straw one, and every morning, he’d sit on the beach, fishing rod in hand, waiting for the elusive giant clam that had become his white whale.

The Professor, brilliant but socially awkward, had discovered a hidden passion for botany. He’d cataloged every plant on the island, naming them after famous scientists. His prized specimen, the “Darwinia Palm,” stood tall near the lagoon.

Mary Ann, the girl-next-door, had embraced her inner survivalist. She’d perfected the art of coconut milk pancakes and woven baskets from palm fronds. Her sun-kissed skin and freckles had become her badge of honor.

Ginger, the glamorous movie star, had traded her sequined gowns for sarongs. She’d built a makeshift stage near the campfire and performed one-woman shows, reenacting scenes from her old films. The applause of the palm trees was all she needed.

Mr. Howell, the millionaire, had lost count of his imaginary bank accounts. He’d become the island’s financial advisor, doling out coconuts like currency. His wife, Mrs. Howell, had taken up watercolor painting, capturing the island’s beauty in soft pastels.

And so, they whispered their secrets to the rustling palm fronds:

“I don’t miss life at sea,” Gilligan confessed to a curious hermit crab.

“I’ve forgotten what a high-society gala even looks like,” Ginger murmured to the wind.

“I never want to see the university again,” the Professor admitted to a passing seagull.

“Diamonds are lovely, but starlit skies are priceless,” Mrs. Howell confided in a moonlit night.

“I don't miss keeping track of stocks,” Mr. Howell whispered to the waves.

And as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, they reveled in their secret pact. 

They’d sabotage every rescue attempt—the coconut radio would mysteriously malfunction, the signal fire would sputter out. They’d laugh and dance around the bonfire, celebrating their freedom from the outside world.

For on Gilligan’s Island, they were no longer castaways. They were a family, bound by sunsets and sea breezes, content in their tropical paradise. 

And so, they whispered their silent prayer:

“May the rescue boats never find us.”

.

 

Fringe Benefits

(Fringe fanfiction) 

In the dimly lit lab of Harvard University, the air was thick with the scent of strawberries. Walter Bishop, the brilliant yet eccentric scientist, was in the midst of a culinary experiment that had nothing to do with the fate of the universe, yet everything to do with the perfection of taste.

“Ah, Astrid, my dear,” Walter called out, not taking his eyes off the blender that whirred with a pink concoction. “Would you be so kind as to pass me the sugar? This batch of strawberry milkshake will be my masterpiece!”

Astrid Farnsworth, ever the patient assistant, handed him the sugar with a smile. “I’m sure it will be, Walter. Just don’t blow up the lab this time.”

Just as Walter was about to respond, the air shimmered, and Fauxlivia Dunham stepped through from the alternate universe. Her red hair was a stark contrast to the sterile environment of the lab.

“Walter, I need your help,” she said urgently, but her eyes couldn’t help but wander to the blender. “Is that a strawberry milkshake?”

Walter, unfazed by the sudden visit, nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Would you like to try it? It’s not just any milkshake; it’s the elixir of joy, the liquid embodiment of bliss!”

Fauxlivia couldn’t help but laugh. “Sure, Walter. Let’s save the universe after a milkshake break.”

As the three of them stood around the lab’s old table, sipping on the creamy drink, for a moment, the troubles of their worlds seemed to melt away, one strawberry milkshake at a time.

My projected date to have my wrist back to normal as much as possible is March 23.

The splint I wear now is detachable (for PT purposes), but somehow it hurts more than the splint I had before and immediately after my surgery.

I started PT two weeks ago and it's helping a lot. This is my first experience with PT, and my therapist is absolutely wonderful: She's kind, but also very firm. 

A coworker told me that she's well known for being very good in her field and I can see it!

This Sunday will be four weeks since I fell. I feel like I'm making progress: The other day, I was able to make a meal from scratch and chop vegetables by holding the vegetables in my left hand and chopping with my dominant right hand. 

I've resumed some of my other activities too and am back at work. But I still have trouble tying trash bags and I can't pick up my cat yet...or even play with him properly🥺

I haven't told my parents anything. I've never hid anything this big from them before. The previous two times I had surgery they were were there when I woke, but that was years ago and bigger surgeries.

I hate lying, I truly do, but my parents live out of state and there's no need to worry them when there's nothing they can do anyway.

My biggest fear about the surgery was the anesthesia. I was so scared. 

But the staff at the surgery center were awesome. I remember asking the nurse who was with me "when are they gonna wheel me into surgery?" And then the next thing I knew I was waking up and clutching her hand and asking her if I was in the afterlife.🤦‍♀️

The person who came with me to be there when I woke up and take me home appeared after I woke up and I couldn't stop laughing. Everything made me laugh. She said to me "well, it sounds you're doing okay."🤣

My Love Affair with Gilligan's Island

In the vast ocean of television shows, there's a tiny island that holds a special place in my heart – Gilligan's Island. As guilty pleasures go, this one might seem like a shipwreck of good taste, but let me assure you, there's a method to my madness.

Let's address the obvious: Gilligan's Island is as unrealistic as a coconut-powered radio. The castaways, marooned on an island with an endless wardrobe supply, managed to maintain their well-coiffed hair and impeccable fashion sense.

Yet, despite its implausibility, I find solace in the absurdity of the show. Gilligan's endless antics and improbable situations make me appreciate the sheer audacity of the writers. It's like a slapstick comedy set against a tropical backdrop, and I'm here for it.

Sure, the Professor could craft a makeshift generator from a couple of coconuts, but I struggle to assemble Ikea furniture without ending up with spare parts. Gilligan's Island lets me escape from reality and revel in the fantastical, even if it means suspending my disbelief to the point of orbiting the moon.

And then there's the theme song – a catchy tune that has become synonymous with my late-night guilty pleasures. I may not remember my grocery list, but I can sing every word of that theme song without missing a beat. It's the musical equivalent of comfort food, a reminder that sometimes, in the vast sea of television options, you just need a simple three-hour tour.

While the world around me spins with complex plotlines and gritty dramas, Gilligan's Island remains my sanctuary of simplicity. It's a reminder that laughter doesn't always need a sophisticated setup – sometimes, a coconut falling on Gilligan's head is all you need to brighten your day.

So, as I navigate the treacherous waters of modern television, I'll proudly raise my coconut cup in salute to Gilligan's Island – my guiltiest of pleasures that, against all odds, continues to make me laugh like a castaway who just discovered indoor plumbing on a deserted island.

I'm using my microphone to write this, so hopefully it'll make sense. 

Two weeks ago today I broke my wrist. I had surgery on Thursday and I'm hopeful that it will correct what happened and that eventually I'll have my wrist back to the way it was

The first week and a half I went to work, but then I had my surgery and the doctor says I need to stay home for two weeks. 

I have my follow up appointment on February 16 and maybe I won't have to wear the splint too much longer after that, but I'm not sure.

My cat has been of great comfort to me Past two weeks. He seems to understand that I can't play with him like I used to and I hope he also understands that it's going to be temporary.

At night I usually hug him like a teddy bear, but I can't right now, so I put my right arm out straight, and he sleeps in the crook of my elbow

Friday and Saturday I was in great pain from the surgery and I took one oxycontin each day. I don't want to get addicted so I'm not using it very much.

The hardest things are getting dressed and trying to tie my trash bags which is almost impossible. Everything else I seem to manage pretty OK, including cooking.

Maybe I can learn something from this: that my health needs to be improved greatly. The doctor suspects I have osteoporosis, and when I got the physical for my pre op, I found out that I have pre-hypertension. 

Until four years ago I was about 120 pounds and 5'3. Ten years before that I was 110...both times I had very low blood pressure

Now I'm 140+ and it scares me beyond words.

I don't want to be like this anymore

One good thing I discovered is that I can give up alcohol...I haven't missed it at all the past two weeks and I don't plan on ever going back to it. 

My friend gave me these recently and I find they really do help with anxiety.

More info here:

https://www.amazon.com/Against-Anxiety-Cards-Catchyourdreams-Affirmations/dp/B09XTNKRFF

In Small Circles

(An imagining)

In a small town where time seemed to move at its own pace, Lily and Emily unknowingly wove their lives together through the delicate threads of fate.

After high school, their paths diverged, yet the universe conspired to keep them in proximity, never allowing their orbits to intersect.

Through the years, Lily and Emily crisscrossed each other's existence like ghostly echoes. In bustling cafés, they sipped coffee at neighboring tables, blissfully unaware of the other's presence. The same park bench witnessed their solitary musings, separated by mere moments in time.

As decades unfolded, they shared the same neighborhood, passed each other in crowded markets, and attended events where their gazes grazed but never connected. Destiny's whims kept their lives parallel, but never overlapping.

In their twilight years, Lily and Emily found themselves in the embrace of a retirement home, their shared history unbeknownst to both. 

Fragments of memories lingered, hinting at missed encounters and silent regrets.

One day, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, they sat together in the quiet courtyard. 

Lily, with a fragile smile, turned to Emily. "I've carried a weight from high school, an unspoken sorrow. I'm sorry for what happened back then."

Emily's eyes softened with understanding, realizing the puzzle pieces falling into place. 

With a bittersweet acknowledgment, she replied, "Lily, I forgave you long ago. Life led us on separate paths, but now we've found our way back."

In that poignant moment, the weight of the past lifted. 

Though Lily's feelings remained unrequited, there was a profound sense of closure. As the sun set on their intertwined lives, they found peace, forgiving the echoes of their shared past.

 

An absolutely lovely short story in this issue hit my heart hard...you can find it here:

https://archive.org/details/Fantasy_Science_Fiction_v003n03_1952-06/page/n3/mode/2up

The Internet Archive is a treasure trove for anyone who loves vintage science fiction. You can find more Fantasy and Science Fiction issues here:

https://archive.org/details/fantasyandsciencefiction

I cannot begin to describe how Sloane Britain's books have affected me, especially _These Curious Pleasures_ and _1st Person 3rd Sex_. I wish she had lived longer. I wish I could actually talk to her. 

Not that she'd need to hear praise from me, but it's just her books speak to me in a way no other books ever have.

There are so many lines in 1st Person that make me either cry or feel less lonely. I don't have many people to talk about "my issues" with...so books are what I rely on.

I wish there were a way to find out more about Sloane Britain, an amazingly talented pulp fiction writer who died way too young and under way too sad circumstances (she killed herself when her family could not deal with her being gay, according to one source, though another states she died in a car accident.) 

While some of what she wrote ended in unhappiness typical of lesbian fiction at the time, books like _These Curious Pleasures_ and _First Person 3rd Sex_ had something more upbeat to offer, either with actual happily ever afters or at least hints of something better to come.

There is so much to like about this book except maybe the title which doesn't exactly roll of the mouth easily. I found myself enjoying several of the passages...ones such as this:

"I felt like laughing because, well, let's admit it, if you're not feeling anything there is something absurd about normally self-controlled dignified human beings grunting and panting with that expression of complete absorption on their faces." Paula (our main character whose heart is bigger than her head and far less practical when it comes to her roommate Janet) contemplates how silly physical love can be without emotional ties.

There's another great line about the main character's history with crushes and, later, she wrestles with how hard it is to meet someone she could actually share a life with forever (something a lot of people search for whether they are gay or straight).

"All I was sure of," Paula thinks to herself, "was that someday, somewhere, I would find that woman who would love me as I loved her. I don't know her name or what she looks like or anything about her, only that as I write this she, too, is waiting."

(I wonder if this is how Sloane Brittain herself felt…)

To contemplate that this was written six decades ago, when most pulp fiction featuring gay women had them "changing their minds," killing themselves, or being committed to institutions...well, that just makes this impressionable book even more overwhelming.

Katherine V. Forrest, a somewhat more modern pioneer in lesbian fiction, once wrote about women like Sloane Britain: "The courage of the authors of these books also cannot be overstated, pseudonyms be damned. The writers of these books laid bare an intimate, hidden part of themselves and they did it under siege, in the dark depths of a more than metaphorical wartime, because there was desperate urgency inside them to reach out, to put words on the page for women like themselves to read. Their words reached us, they touched us in different and deeply personal ways, and they helped us all....In my case, they saved my life."

These words strike hard with the truth, especially for anyone who has ever suffered in silence for fear speaking out would cost them their family or worse.