Predicting the Plan-Demic?!

Back in October 2016, after recently graduating as a returning adult student with a Bachelor’s Degree in Communication Studies (magna cum laude, but who am I to toot my own horn? THEY gave the the so-called “honors”), my rock band decided to write and record a concept album. What’s a “concept album?” you might be asking.

A concept album starts with an overarching theme, a story from which the lyrics, music, arrangements, and production all create a musical journey, much like a film depicts a story. Popular concept albums include The Wall by Pink Floyd, Tommy by The Who, and American Idiot by Green Day.

In my band’s case, we wanted to do something very progressive in to reflect a more organic, soulful alternative to the sound-alike rock and pop “acts” making it to the airwaves. So we enlisted moi to write a screenplay as the larger story behind the songs.

As a side note, our band is called We Play For Cash, or WP4$. When my amazingly talented husband with a unique sense of humor got the idea for this band name, I told him that he — once again — got me “creatively impregnated”! Once the screenplay / story was written, we began to write songs.

Our music is still in production. Aside from quite a bit of band drama (and yes, we have found that many musicians bail when the path becomes difficult or unclear), writing truly creative music takes a long time — especially if you aren’t backed by globalists and their bazillions of dollars and their immense power over the former “fourth estate” now recognized as the mouthpiece of that very establishment.

We Play For Cash (WP4$) band members at Allegretto Inn and Resort in Paso Robles, California, featuring Left to Right: (seated) Lef D. Troyt and Tryxxie Pyxis,
and (standing) WaveRunner, Okie Wolf, Bam-Bam, Dead Boy Jubs, and Phil Durt.

The good news for you is that I decided yesterday to share my screenplay with you. So, here we go. It’s a fairly solid first draft that needs a lot of character background development to make the story more interesting.

But the important thing is that the script pretty much predicts the Cov-Ain’t narrative. Obviously, there are many departures from the current “reality” of the “ever-evolving” “news-worthy” social CON-struct. I’d love to read your comments after you’ve read my screenplay so we can compare notes!

Here is Seventh Evolution, the screenplay, in PDF:

Also, my home/business number is on the cover page, but please don’t call me. I don’t answer my phone if I don’t know your name and number. And I screen all my email messages, so only message me if you are serious about discussing the deeper implications of this screenplay. I will definitely converse with you if you take the time to read it and form some questions and/or perspectives for consideration.

Thank you!

Defying the Tyrannical Father Figure

The television, used for viewing “entertainment,” is actually a device intentionally created by tyrannical father figures to manipulate human consciousness (that’s your mind, attention, worldview, beliefs) and to enrich the designers and producers of all mainstream content.
None of it is for your benefit. All of it is for your rapid demise into their death cult.
(It ain’t called “programming” for nothing.)

If you want to truly be free — or as free as a human can be in this transitory time on Earth — you need to face, embrace, and deal every day or sometimes moment-by-moment with the fact that our entire world is scaffolded with a fear of punishment that is arbitrary, capricious, severe, and enduring. Because this is the modus operandi of all social constructs — and has been since at least the recorded human history we are privy to — we cannot escape the chastisement, nor can we be unchanged by its trauma-inflicting essence (at least not yet, and I’ll talk about that later in the article!).

Punishment inflicted by fear-mongering father figures is embedded in every religion, government, corporation, formal learning institution, and necessarily, the family. Social media; film and tv; music and music videos; advertising and marketing — and therefore everyday communication — are all built on the framework of fear and punishment. A person may venture to a mountaintop or other remote location to live a so-called “pristine life,” but because that person was (we shall assume) born into an earthly family, they will not have escaped the punitive coding: It’s a write-over of their DNA. At some point, the loner, too, will have to face the [fake] dragon and conquer it or be a slave to it . . . even in their well-meant solitude.

But before any readers chastise me, I want to say that both men and women play the role of tyrant. (Remember, mothers do a large percentage of hands-on parenting, and women do most of the K-12 “education” through government indoctrination centers, so females don’t get an automatic pass.) My actual claim is that this father-figure bully is like an overlaid blanket of doom, or a distorted reflection appearing as a fire-breathing fucker, perhaps, and it is crushing our free, creative human condition. It manipulates our divine DNA blueprint, intentionally hacking our thoughts and therefore manipulating our individual behavior and collective. Thus, any and every man, woman, and child is infected with this overlay — or mind virus, for a better term — and will display the exact same characteristics of a tyrannical father figure.

What are those traits? Here are just a few:

Focus on punishment and retribution. Narcissism. Unwillingness to be wrong and/or inability to feel remorse for inflicting harm on others, even mistakenly. Gas-lighting. Name calling. Distraction. Denial. Unpredictable, passive-aggressive behaviors. Fanning the flames of pain and suffering, and taking perverse delight in doing so. Distorting the truth, often using a kernel of truth to deceive, obfuscate, and misinform. Exerting violence — verbal, physical, or psychological. Inconsistent rules. Projection. Financial/economic coercion. Tracking and tracing. Control, both subtle and overt.

It looks a lot like this roulette wheel from hell:

The crazy mo-fo father figure is everywhere. If you’ve been harmed in any way by punitive forces of control (and since you’re alive on trauma planet, you definitely have been harmed), and you feel trapped, frightened, and alone, then you’ve got work to do.

What do I propose that work to entail? The answer is in the title of this piece: Defying the Fear-Mongering Father Figure.

Recall that this is not only about fathers, nor so-called patriarchal systems — although both may indeed be part of what surely needs to be dressed down in the micro and macro levels of life. This is about your state of being. It’s about you recognizing the energetic signature of control through fear and punishment, and subsequently, systematically refusing to acquiesce. Sounds simple in blog post; but it’s more complex in real life because it requires a vigilant mind. A person who spends much time on mainstream social media, watching tv/film/music videos, and seeking other entertaining distractions is going to find the process of observation and individuation to which I refer extremely difficult. Here is an idea of the investment:

First, one must have an open mind, and be willing to come up against cognitive dissonance in your perceptions, as this is a tool of the fake-fire-breathing fuckers to send you running back into your comfortable cave and never come close to dispelling their illusions and INVERSIONS OF TRUTH. My recommendations is to start seeing cognitive dissonance in operation now, as you read this article. If you’ve gotten this far, you’re probably ready to at least see the SNOGARD (that’s “dragons” spelled backward, a word inversion, see what I did there?)!

Second, one must have the attitude of gratitude, in the sense that you are worthy of being FREE AND SOVEREIGN. Mother Earth is your guide in this. As you look around the Natural World, endeavor to find your own personal connection with trees, flowers, birds, bugs. Try not to demonize them! We’ve been taught to fight and dominate the natural world, even while Nature — Mother Earth — is beckoning us and beaming love, light, and important information to us ALL THE TIME. You are worthy of good health, wealth and prosperity, of truly loving relationships, and all the things of your deepest, most treasured joyous dreams. Being grateful for every moment in your life is key to accepting the goodness that is your nature.

Third, one must be willing to venture into the world on every level — spiritual, mental, physical. You have to TEST YOURSELF as a free being. Sitting on the sofa while scrolling through Faceborg or Instaghoul on your phone is decidedly not living, it is simply existing in a frozen state of fear. In which case, the fuckers win. We are born to be mobile in the most beautiful ways! GET UP and explore the real, natural world — or any aspect of it that you choose — to create true joy.

Fourth, and finally, one must be willing to GROW. If you fulfill the first three response-abilities, then you have committed to evolving and adapting to and with Mother Earth — not from some insidious personal relationship manipulation or creepy corporate or government propaganda, but from a balance between your heart & mind and your authentic connection to life right here and now.

And while this work is intense, daunting, and often outright ridiculed by friends, family, and the community, it is the most important work you will do in your entire human existence. Furthermore, the rewards for doing this hard work are truly amazing! You will gain autonomy. You will become a warrior in the face of fear, a veritable samurai, slashing your way through hardship, and turning it all into your own pot of gold!

But if you’re not up for this adventure of a lifetime — as in, ante up, all in, cash out, make it a double — then don’t expect your life to improve. In fact, it’s most likely that you will create more and more misery: Declining health, physical pain, mental ineptitude, psychological trauma, and all-around weakness. How can you give over all your energy to the death cult while expecting something to “just happen” that will change the crappy results of your poor decisions into diamonds? To change lies into truth? To convert sickness into health?

That sounds like savior programming to me: Believing that someone or something will see your pathetic suffering ass and transform you into the picture of awesomeness with the wave of their magic wand or by speaking a secret spell . . .  just because they sense deep down that you deserve a better life.

Well, if it hasn’t happened yet, what makes you think it will happen, and in the nick of time, with no effort on your part? What kind of parents did you have who didn’t bother to teach you to get up and do stuff to make improvements in life? Like mow the lawn, or wash the dishes, or paint a pretty painting? Did no one clue you in to the fact that we have multiple senses, moving body parts, and brains for a reason? We’re supposed to think, and then make shit happen! Create things of beauty!

Well, it’s the same with the process of individuation and healing: You’ve got to start by deciding what kind of person you want to be and what kind of life you want to live. You’ve got to fix your messed up psychology so you can be your genuine self and go out into the world to do your cool mission and manifest great relationships, resources, and opportunities.

And to do all that, you’ve got to defy the tyrannical father figure who is everywhere — in the outer world and inside your head — telling you “you can’t,” “you’re lazy,” “you’re stupid,” “you’re never going to make anything of yourself,” “you’re not good enough.”

I’M TELLING YOU that this lying, cheating, demonic, twisted, shit-for-brains bastard is going to kick you when you’re down. (I said this is hard work.) But YOU are going to GET UP again every time, and become very strong in your head and in your heart. (Maybe you’ll even work on your body!) This fuckwad will try some fuckery when you’re UP, too . . . and oh what a headspin and heartbreak that will be.

But every time you tell this faking fucker to fuck off, you will get an immediate reward: YOU. Yes, you. You will re-integrate another piece of your self, your soul, your true spiritual power, with every valiant, heart-centered effort, and achieve a level of peace and freedom you never knew existed.

Are you worth it? Are you good enough? I think you are!

Now get to work slaying SNOGARDS, and have a ton of fun being your amazing self!

Love, Sharine.

Faulty Logic is the “Con” Tool of Controllers

This makes sense to WHO? Humanity is being openly mocked by those who wish to enslave us.

Dear Reader: I’ll be honest with my intention, in this article and all of my posts:

I don’t care to coerce you into any specific behavior or social attitude or action. You and I alike are endowed with the same inalienable rights, and one of those is free will. So my goal as a writer — as a living, breathing, spiritual woman — is not to force you against your will into subscribing to my beliefs. However, one way I endeavor to inspire readers is through my personal experience and “inner-standings” . . . and by asking many, many, many, many questions. Also maybe getting a little bit metaphorical. That all said, here’s my latest “inspiration.”

So . . .

I was in the car, with my husband next to me in the driver’s seat. We were in the parking lot of the local Trader Joe’s store, waiting for an employee to shop for the specific items we had kindly offered on an easy-to-read computer-printed list. Yeah, they do that now: It’s TJ’s “reasonable accommodation” for people like us who don’t wear a face mask. My husband and I no longer have the right to shop, which means to go into a store and look around for what we want. Our right to purchase goods by ourselves as full spectrum humans has been openly, unlawfully disaffirmed.

We are forced to wait in the car, treated like dogs (dogs!) who are not allowed — nor able — to shop.

Meanwhile, compliant people populate the store and, either out of fear or sheer compliance, they wear dirty, bacteria-filled face masks pulled out of a pants pocket or purse. They’re touching their masks, then touching the food, some of which they put back on the shelf. My husband and I are clean and healthy. We’re not afraid, we’re not wearing an identity-concealing face covering, and yet WE are the ones not allowed into the store. Does this seem “reasonable” or “logical” to you? Honestly, I think people should be able to choose to wear a face mask. My issue is businesses and other people being encouraged to FORCE ME to the sidelines because I don’t. Do you see the problem here? My rights are being ripped away from me because I don’t follow a non-law. I don’t force you to NOT wear a mask. Get it?

Quick reminder: Written, man-made laws are supposed to uphold and protect, at all costs, our inalienable rights — yes, even during times of so-called emergency! Do you care about my rights? Because MY rights are the same as YOUR rights. I don’t want anyone’s rights being violated.

If you can’t breathe properly, how does that affect your entire BEING?

Some more questions:

Did science™ suddenly advance so massively since influenza outbreaks just a few months prior to COVID, and that’s why the “officials” seemed to not “care” enough about us in the past to try to force face mask wearing? They just “didn’t have the science” in mid-2019? Do you honestly believe that? Where is the logic in this notion? And why are you not questioning “authorities”?

And consider this scenario:

What if the governor of your state issued a “mandate” (which is not a law) that everyone wear a special hat to deflect harmful rays from Saturn — rays depicted only as cartoons and in computer-generated models? After whipping up an unlawful frenzy within state, county, and local health agencies which widely publicize the information, the governor blatantly ignores the fact that anyone not wearing such a hat is being denied rightful access to normal goods and services that wearers have full access to, quite effectively creating a “hat privilege” division similar to pre-Civil Rights era “white privilege.”

Do you think this is reasonable and fair? Do elected officials and their agencies have a right to uphold the law? What if the widely promoted “science™” said that if you didn’t wear the special hat, Saturn’s rays would not only harm you, you would most certainly absorb and then transmit the rays to everyone around you? Would you research any of this? What would you do if you didn’t agree with the “science” and with government and businesses acting as though they could rightfully force you to wear the hat? Would you go along to get along, or would you refuse? What if the hat prevented you from turning your head in normal ways, so that you couldn’t see properly without constantly turning your body, or needing to remove the hat, which 95% of businesses would not allow? Is this normal and okay for you? Is limited vision and mobility worth the “inconvenience” of buying and wearing the hat? Would you force your children to wear the hat?

But I digress. I was talking about TJ’s.

The updated sign outside Trader Joe’s [in February 2021] indicated that the reason they are enforcing face mask wearing is “due to limited capacity.” Capacity of what? Brain space? Please. Every building on the planet has “limited capacity”: It’s called four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. Sure, here in the US, the Fire Marshal and OSHA set limits on the number of people that can safely be in a building at any given time. Seems like a reasonable law to me, if we have to have laws for people with no reasoning capabilities. But please tell me WTF does “limited capacity” have to do with making people (unlawfully) wear face masks? Come on, TJ’s, your legal team is out on a long, weak limb here.

These are people that you or your parents may have voted for to represent you in government. And, by the way, the word “government” means “mind control.”

And yet it’s not just TJ’s trying ridiculously to create sense from non-sense:

The entire plandemic has been one long ugly-clown parade of arbitrary, conflicting, senseless, anti-real-science “recommendations,” WHICH ARE NOT LAWS. If you are fearful and treating this heartless, cruel “advice” as LAW, you are not only sadly mistaken, you are complying with tyranny, and therefore you are complicit in all the damage. Yes, I said that.

Furthermore, wearing a face mask is a sign to your oppressors that you want to be enslaved, and to your fellow humans that you expect them to give up THEIR rights and freedom in deference to your pathetic plea to make THEM responsible for YOUR health.

“Oh, but Sharine,” you might be saying, “I follow the science™ which says that face masks prevent viral transmission.” Well, a little bit of research would show you that the science of which you speak just isn’t there. It’s not there. No studies — read: ZERO STUDIES — exist that prove face masks prevent viral transmission. To back that up, look at the box of medical masks being worn and discarded into our environment by the billions: It contains a WARNING that the masks do not prevent transmission of viral or other pathogens, including Coronavirus, (COVID). If the medical masks don’t prevent transmission, how does your high-fashion, fancy-fabric, “I-feel-better-about-not-breathing-or-speaking-normally-now” face muzzle prevent transmission? And even if the medical masks did prevent transmission (which they don’t), how is it logical that you have to wear one in the reception room at the dentist’s office, but you can — and must — take it off to have dental work done? Where is the logic in wearing a face mask into a restaurant but removing it to eat is fine?

Please enlighten me: I promise you that I want to learn. This is not a facetious statement; I really want to grow and mature into my full logical, loving self.

I don’t know how I can make my appeal any more clear:

You are like a fully gas-lighted girlfriend with an abusive boyfriend who over the last year-plus confined you to the house, took away your access to making money, and forced you to wear a muzzle to keep you from screaming for help — all under the guise that he is “protecting” you from a “killer on the loose” who no one has ever seen, so he shows you cartoon pictures of this supposed killer, telling you all day and night that the killer is REAL REAL REAL and that you’re going to DIE DIE DIE if you leave your boyfriend’s protective custody.

Your boyfriend doesn’t care about you. He thinks you’re stupid and deserving of being his slave — and you are proving him correct.

To complete the analogy, in the current situation, you are being used and abused by illegitimate bands of psychopathic criminals for even more nefarious ends. They justify these “ends” with their belief that we humans are dirty, dumb, and compliant, and therefore they have the “right” to rule over us, to “protect” us from unseen, unseeable killers — that is, to enslave us for their purposes. And I’m like your best friend trying desperately to get you to acknowledge that your boyfriend DOESN’T LOVE YOU because that’s not what love is and you know that when you’re not swimming in the shit-ocean he has slowly manipulated you into thinking is somehow “not that bad.”

You should definitely not bother to look at this graphic and read through it in its entirety to grasp what I am talking about in my article.

At this point, exactly 404 days into the “pandemic that does not exist,” I’m pretty damn exhausted. Especially since the platform I’ve been writing on ( already undid a bunch of my good work with you by deleting two of my best, most well-researched truth-and-freedom articles, and in early April shut down my account to the public. And frankly, if I don’t start getting some indication from you that you remember what real love — and actually living life — feels like and looks like, I’m not sure I want to keep trying to help you remember. (Did I mention how EXHAUSTING it is to say the same things, over and over and over and over, only for you to run out of fear back into the arms of your creepy boyfriend/oppressor?)

Or maybe I won’t give up, because I love you.

And maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance that the truth I’m sharing will be so bright one day, that you’ll SEE IT and dump that sorry-ass, lying, cheating, manipulating, gas-lighting, narcissistic psycho, once and for all. Because, what’s worse between the only two options? You leave him (take off the mask and stop complying with unlawful mandates) and you’re alone (like my husband and I sitting in the car at TJ’s while everyone wearing a mask gets to go inside and shop), but now you’re as free as you can be; OR you stay with him because it’s convenient and you get to feel superior that you can handle whatever he crap throws at you, as if you’re some kind of a victim-martyr for the greater good, which is exactly what the oppressors WANT you to feel like. I think there is a logical choice, but it’s your decision, of course, because you have free will.

Now please either leave me alone to make my own decisions and help other people reclaim logic and real freedom-based love, or stand with me and help me stop TJ’s and all these other faulty-logic tyrants from violating our Creator-given inalienable rights.

Let’s stop being controlled by ill-logic! Let’s be the authors of our own lives and build a beautiful world together!

On Individuating, Healing, and Becoming a Whole, Healthy Human

My Response to Jessica Valenti’s piece on Medium entitled “We Can’t Afford Another 4 Years of ‘Me Me Me’ Politics”

Signs that we are in a spiritual war, one that can only be acknowledged through the question:
Who stands to benefit from this proposition?

(NOTE: Jessica’s post is a quick read, if you want to get the full context of my reply.)

Jessica, it’s difficult to have a conversation with a Medium writer who never responds to her commenters, and the one I’m starting with you here is a bit of a diatribe, I admit. But I’m curious:

What makes you think that “living in a civilized society means working for the health and happiness of everyone in it”?

And if that is your ultimate goal, who gets to define exactly how everyone achieves health and happiness? Is one definition sufficient to cover the nearly 8 billion people on the planet? Does this seem rational or reasonable? Who is the “we” in your article title deciding on what constitutes ‘me, me, me’ politics, and who thus should define what “the greater good” entails?

What if the person defining “working for the health and happiness of everyone” said that everyone must eat cantaloupe every day because cantaloupe is beneficial to health, except that ten percent of the world’s population were severely allergic to it? What if the definer/decider said that they would mandate everyone to take experimental drugs to supposedly correct these allergic conditions? Do you think it would be fair to force those ten percent to take the drugs and eat cantaloupe anyway? If your child was allergic to cantaloupe, would you automatically get the drugs, or would you do some research and try to find a way around this mandate if you found that the drugs had caused harm to others? Would this extend to you “giving a shit about others” (your phrase) — that is, would you approve that others are forced to take experimental drugs, or even drugs that are deemed ‘okay’ by someone else’s standards? Whose standards would you accept as legitimate, and why?

What if the person defining “working for the health and happiness for everyone” decided that everyone must wear a special robe when they are in public, because the definer/decider thinks this piece of clothing has a magical quality that gives wearers the power to ward off all forms of evil? What if some people didn’t believe in these magical qualities or powers and they wanted to wear their own favorite clothing, not the robe? Would you non-judgmentally let them do their own thing, or start yelling at them in public to shame them? What if you also questioned the magical qualities and powers but didn’t tell anyone, so you kept wearing the robe just to avoid inconvenience, or actual consequences? What do you think would be fair to do to the rule-breaking people? Keep them from being in public perhaps, or simple allow others to berate them and run them back home, or maybe fine them every time they went outside their home without the robe? What if your mother or best friend refused to wear the robe in public? Should anyone be exempt? Who? Why?

What if someone else decided they were going to start making the rules instead of the first person? What if the new decider now defining “working for the health and happiness of everyone” said that no one was allowed to eat pasta ever because the decider believes that pasta is “the devil’s food” and threatens safety and security? What if rule-breakers had their livelihoods taken from them and were fined or even jailed? Would you eat pasta anyway, knowing that you were going against this new rule? How would you do it? Go to the dark web for pasta, or start making your own in a secret room in your house? Or would you follow the rule, despite your lifelong passion for eating pasta? Would you applaud, either privately or publicly, when others lost their jobs, their family businesses, their writing careers because they defied this new rule?

Who gets to decide on the definition of “working for the health and happiness of everyone,” Jessica — or even that such a concept is reasonable?

Is this notion truly just? Is this social construct an inalienable “right” (defined as something that does not cause harm to a sentient being), or is it a “wrong” (defined as something that does cause harm)? Who gives us our rights? Authority figures? Or do they come from a Divine source? If we do not have individual rights as men and women here on Earth, and we are constantly sacrificing for the “greater good,” are we truly free? Do you think freedom is good and right, or is it bad and wrong? Is freedom conditional? Do you think that we should be enslaved to one another — and to a “ruler” — as part of this cult-ural “greater good” imposition? Is that the kind of world you want to live in, where one person’s happiness is immediately another person’s misery? If so, how is this “right” by any stretch of imagination and reason?

These are the kinds of scenarios that mature people have either been through or thought through in the arduous psychological work of healing their traumas, of individuating from the cult-ural hive mind, and of learning to take excellent care of their bodies, minds, and souls. Mature people, rightly, don’t feel they owe anything to infantilized people who sit around, waiting for government, pharmaceutical companies, and other “authorities” to fix their problems.

I think you know that I’m not talking about turning away from the elderly in care homes, or from infants born to drug-addicted parents. But if an adult person chooses to eat nutritionally poor food, never exercises, ingests a bunch of pharmaceutical drugs, becomes diseased, and then blames society or bad DNA for that, how, exactly, am I personally responsible for taking care of them? And I really do want to hear your answers to that question.

Being an individual whose self-care comes first does not make me narcissistic: It makes me mature, because I can’t truly help others if I’m in a shambles, can I? In fact, I DO CARE for people. I endeavor to share scientifically proven, experiential facts about nutrition, psychological well-being, and creativity. These aspects of human health are defunded, de-platformed, and discredited frequently by powerful industries. True health, a component of maturity, is largely ignored by the masses, who much prefer 1) pills, “injectables,” and fad diets to eating a healthful, mostly whole-food plant-based diet. The mind-controlled masses also 2) watch mainstream tell-a-vision news, movies, and social media instead of doing the hard work of researching, improving themselves, creating their own art, and forging a unique path to maturity.

In other words, most people consume what the cult-ure tells them is satiating and entertaining instead of fixing their psychology and taking care of their bodies. They don’t think for themselves. They don’t explore alternative ideas. They don’t buck the system, question authority, or follow their heart. They’re killing themselves, physically, mentally, and spiritually. And yet, Jessica, you and so many other folks demand that I step in and provide some kind of solution.

The problem is that these people clearly DO NOT WANT my solution. They want to carry on with eating rich-tasting foods that come with extreme costs, telling themselves that it is normal and natural to have a heart attack or get cancer. They want to continue entertaining themselves to death, telling themselves that they are meant to live a false New (c)Age life of “constant joy,” while berating me because I won’t protect them from the diseases and disappointments that they bring on themselves. How much more “me, me, me” can they get? These people hate me because I refuse to be responsible for something I was never given: THEIR FREE WILL. I’ve got my own free will, thank you very much, and I’ve got my own work cut out for me in learning to properly exercise that free will.

So, Jessica, my choosing to not wear an identity-concealing self-suffocating device (face mask) is because I am healthy in body, mind, and spirit when I am free to be myself. And I intend to stay that way, rather than cut off my own oxygen supply, take in excessive carbon dioxide, and breathe through a wet, bacteria breeding ground. Yes, this means I am self-ish, because I actually have a self, which I have worked very hard to mature into and which I will sacrifice for no one and nothing unless I choose to do so.

I would, for example, choose to make certain sacrifices if I were a mother, protecting my child, for I would be responsible for my helpless baby. But do you seriously want me to come to your house every 15 minutes to check on you through the night, as I would do for my own infant? Should I treat my fellow human beings like 10-year-olds, stomping up to them in the grocery store and telling them to drop the candy bar and grab an orange instead? How about if I act like everyone is 16, and I approach them in public or even go to their homes, scolding them to practice abstinence with their date? Sure, those are simple examples, but I’m trying to show that what you are advocating for is adults treating each other as helpless, or dumb, or about to do something regrettable — or all of the above.

That’s not the world I want to live in, nor the one I am working to create, and that’s why I spend so much time writing responses to your posts that you will probably never read [but Medium “Trust & Safety” globalist lapdogs will]. Because, at least if I’m going to share my thoughts with you, it’ll be in a way that you can decide if you give a shit about me and my freedom, or if you just want to hang out, high in your cushy tower, and try to enslave both of us with your “officially sanctioned” definition of “working for the health and happiness of everyone.”

Meanwhile, enjoy eating pasta whenever you please. If it sounds ridiculous to entertain the notion that rotini, linguine, and sedanini can be taken from you in the same way other freedoms are — by certain people defining “the greater good”—then you have conveniently forgotten about slavery, prohibition, Kristallnacht, and, more recently, the cruel, life-crushing COVID-19 measures being foisted on humanity from the same controlling forces that bring constant war, poverty, starvation, debt, and destruction to the world.



(This article was originally written and published by me on in late 2020 or early 2021. The Medium platform “Trust & Safety” committee began monitoring me and my posts since late 2020 — after I began questioning the mainstream scripted CV-19 narrative — and the globalists’ lapdogs eventually closed my account to the public in early April 2021.)

After witnessing months of desperation, destruction, and de-humanization under a fake pandemic perpetuated by globalists and their psychopathic cushy-job-holding puppets around the world, my heart is officially broken and I have had it with comfort-seeking Covid compliers. The sheer amount of fear-based ignorance on display is off the charts, and that is unacceptable when we have information literally at our fingertips to help educate ourselves about what is going on with CV-19.

Here is a question for readers who’ve made it this far: What makes you blindly trust government and “authorities”?

Did you answer, “I don’t blindly trust them”? Then I have to call out a lie when I hear one if you 1) wear a face mask because you’re afraid of viral transmission; 2) shut down or limited your business and enforce face mask wearing/social distancing on employees and shoppers; 3) kept your kids in any school where they are forced to social distance, wear face masks and/or face shields, not share anything, and constantly use hand sanitizer; 4) practice social distancing and accept the lock-downs; 5) voluntarily get tested for Covid; and/or 6) have already been vaccinated, or plan to get vaccinated or to vaccinate your children. In other words, if you do any or all of those six activities, you either blindly trust “authority” or you are a coward. I didn’t want to call you a liar and a coward right off the bat, but it was bound to come out sooner than later.

If you haven’t noticed before, I’ll let you in on a “conspiracy.” But it’s a conspiracy that is not a theory: Government and its sanctioned “authorities” lie to you, psychologically manipulate you, and extort you, over and over and over. They started long ago by operating a nearly constant, distracting, fake, divide-and-conquer scheme in which you “must” choose between one slave master or another, even if your desired master doesn’t “win.” This scheme is not legitimate: They choose the winners. After that came the invention of tv, or “tell-a-vision,” which was actually created as a medium for mass mind control. (Hey, they don’t call it “programming” for nothing.) Then they devised a scheme to extort you of the fruits of your hard-earned labor through a laundry list of taxes and fees but they do not use the stolen money to truly benefit you — only to extort you even more. If you refuse to pay, they use coercion and abject violence to rip it from you — or lock you in a cage. They use your stolen money to set up things like indoctrination camps known as public schools, wherein they force your children to sit for hours every day, learning their selected pieces of “information” which can mostly be described as propaganda. And yet you cast your vote for these illegitimate criminals every time, as if there is no other alternative to this heartless ruse against humanity.

With CV-19, government, its minions, and other “authorities” have introduced and continue to perpetuate a fake pandemic based on a fake virus that you discover you are fake-infected with via a test that doesn’t test for infection. The symptoms are exactly like the flu, and just like with the flu, the recovery rate is 99.98% unless you are already ill or elderly and frail. Still, the “authorities” shut down people’s livelihoods, and you let them. They told us to wear face masks everywhere, and you wear them. They said to stand on dots in the stores to “stop the spread” of this virus that does not exist, and there you are on your dot. They told us not to gather or make music, not to hug or hold hands, and you comply, shaming people for simply living their lives. They tell us we’re all dirty and diseased, and you believe it. We’re being told that hundreds of thousands of people are dying from Covid-19, and yet deaths by heart attack, cancer, and pneumonia are all but gone from their records. Why? Because they have slyly re-categorized almost every death as a “Covid” death, even if a person died from heart failure. Actually, officials came on tell-a-vision repeatedly and told you exactly how they’re shifting all causes of death into the Covid category if only on the assumption that the deceased person had some of the “symptoms,” and you ignore that dark magic in plain sight. They conveniently fail to remind us that we extorted taxpayers are footing the bill for ALL OF THIS. They use words like “mandate,” and make it sound like there are laws forcing you to comply — but there are no such laws. This has been going on for the better part of a year, but you’re STILL not questioning it or getting angry at the tyrannical abuse, and if you ARE pissed off, you’re masking up and staying silent about it, which is helping exactly no one . . . and hurting everyone.

In short, your compliance signals to the psychopaths to keep going with this trauma.

Our elderly are being kept from seeing and hugging their families — for month after month — and they are dying from lack of love. People in need of life-saving medical procedures have put them on the back burner because they’re afraid of “getting the Covid” in the hospital, or they’ve been shamed into feeling like a useless eater compared to the much-lauded Covid cases. New mothers are forced to, or perhaps choosing to, wear a face mask around their newborn, removing the humanness of the mother’s smile and normal sounds of her voice during the most crucial bonding time in the baby’s life. In order to maintain their jobs, teachers, rehabilitation therapists, nurses, janitors, food service workers, and other government employees are being force-tested with a taxpayer-funded procedure that is horribly misused by “authorities” to create “cases” out of thin air — in other words, the “tests” are a lie. But you still keep telling everyone to shut up and wear a mask until there is no more death by Covid. What about the deaths from suicide after mothers and fathers can no longer pay the rent or feed their families, or after college students, many already far from their loved ones, realize they are trapped and isolated like lab rats and end their lives? Healthy people are becoming mentally and physically ill from the constant bombardment of fear-porn propaganda and color-coded restriction methods put in place by governments. These arbitrary, cruel measures being “mandated” by “authorities” are sickening and killing people.

What have you become that you accept these realities without compassion?

Now I’m sick. I am sick of your virtue signaling and your holier-than-thou attitude with regard to wearing face masks that come in a box printed with a warning that they do not protect against viruses and most pathogens — including Covid-19. On the box. Have you spent five minutes researching anything about face masks and viral transmission? No? Well, I have, and I found that there are no (read: ZERO) properly done, reputable scientific studies showing that face masks are effective at stopping viral transmission. That’s right, there is no proof, while many of the studies proving mask ineffectiveness and health dangers have been expunged from the annals of Science™. And yet you have the smug self-righteousness to wear a face mask everywhere, railing against those of us who don’t because we know the truth and aren’t afraid of a virus that does not exist. The CDC even said it doesn’t exist on page 39 of a recent 50+ page document. Of course they buried it. Did you think they would put that tidy tidbit in the opening paragraph? CDC: “Here’s our latest proof of the rampaging killer virus: Yeah, we still got nothing.” Somewhere in all of this cover-up and manufactured consensus is the truth.

Remember the truth? It’s that thing where, if you tell a lie, your parents or teacher or other sane adult would call you out on that lie and try to get you to tell the truth to help set the situation right after you fucked it up. Guess what? You’re fucking up again. Masks don’t work to stop transmission of viruses, especially viruses that don’t exist. Standing on a dot on the floor in Walmart doesn’t make you immune to the Covid, it makes you an idiot because you’re giving up your ability to distinguish truth from bullshit. Come on. You can’t smell it? That’s because you’ve been swimming in crap your whole adult life and never bothered to question why the world stinks. Or maybe you DID question for a while, but you got shut down by “authorities,” and you gave up on truth-seeking for the false comfort of ignorance. Well, hey. I’m here to tell you that it’s time to strap on the old BS sensor again, and tout suite, mon ami. We are running out of time.

That’s right. While you’ve been wallowing in your blissful idiocy, swigging RockStar drinks, binge watching on Netflix, and shopping for fancy face muzzles, people with nefarious agendas have been studying you and your pathetic, infantilized psychology. They watch you entertain yourself into a spiritual slumber, satiating your senses with pleasures and distractions, just as you are now: Hoping for a vaccine to keep you from having to take responsibility for your own body and mind. A vaccine that will allow you to carry on eating the same harmful foods that compromise your immune system so that it can no longer keep you healthy and vital. A vaccine that will allow you to shift yourresponsibility onto your tax-paying neighbors, since Pfizer and Moderna aren’t developing serums with their OWN billions of dollars (which they have also siphoned off the tax coffers). So, you’ll be off the hook in your own childish mind, but those jabs are going to take a toll on you.

Do you even know what ingredients make up one of these new “messenger” vaccines? Here are some of the old tried-and-true ingredients: aluminum, thimerosol (mercury), animal cells, and human fetal tissue. But wait! There’s more with the mRNA poison darts: Hydrogels made of nano-lipids containing toxic polyethylene glycol (found in antifreeze) to soften your tissues, making it easier for nanotechnology to splice your DNA with computer chips and exotic ingredients which will all effectively make you no longer truly human. After the second or third round, your body will be unable to reject the nanotechnology. If you develop illness, you will always have to rely on more injections and pills to try to heal you, but you’ll never be “healed” because that is what your Creator-designed immune system does when you take care of it. On the other hand, nanotechnology, vaccines, and pills are designed by human-loathing experimenters to treat you like a machine, and, after the vaxx, you will be a machine. Permanently connected to the Internet of Things, to AI via NeuraLink, your “data” will be uploaded and other “data” downloaded. Don’t want that particular programming? Too late to reject that, your decision was made when you accepted the first jab.

You will be chipped and tracked, and your every purchase, word, and movement monitored. Thinking of a weekend in the woods to connect with nature? Probably not any more, as your thoughts will no longer be your own, but on the off-chance your last bits of free-thinking slip through the techno-cracks, expect some bizarre turns of events. Because you’re no longer in charge of your life: You turned over the car and the keys to the same authorities who you believed because they promised an easy trip with their vaccine. These nanotech implants have been patented, too, so now you are literally owned by the patent holders. It’s slavery on a whole new level.

Now imagine that you’ve made this decision for your whole family. Your spouse died after the third round from an ugly, never-before heard of disease. Your college kid tried to commit suicide last month and is now under constant surveillance in a government “facility” where you cannot visit her. Your oldest teenager gained a hundred pounds in less than a year and has a host of health problems that the “doctors” are “working on” with pills, more vaccines, and invasive surgeries. Your other teenager is hooked on heroin and lives on the streets in a nearby metro area. You work for the state, heading up a project that puts “boots on the ground,” going door-to-door to find people who opt out of the vaccination and proselytize to them, offering them cash, jobs, and other incentives to get the jab. You get hefty bonuses for people who take the jab on the spot.

If you think I’m making this up for clicks, you are wrong. Well, except that if the article was read seriously by a lot of people, the doomsday scenario would not happen — at least I’d hope that people would be enraged enough to defend their very humanity from tyranny. But who am I? Just a bright-eyed musician and writer whose axis is not safety and security but truth and freedom. I’m not ashamed of who I am, and so I will live free or die trying. For if I have security but not freedom, I will simply exist at the mercy of the tyrants. Yet if I have freedom but not security, I will live fully, regardless of tyrants and their false promise of security. I choose freedom.

So yeah, I have had it with your obsequious obedience. No one is promised a life without risks, so why are you childishly falling for this scam of safety-and-security ensuring measures? Every one of you adhering to and advocating for the “mandates” are complicit in the depression, destruction, and deaths caused by the perpetrators of this fake pandemic. My compassion for compliers exists, but whereas I used to give it automatically, now it has to be earned, and here’s how:

Take off that ritual shaming muzzle, open up your business, hug your kids (after you extricate them from the state indoctrination camps), and breathe freely through the rest of your life like you only have today, because that’s all that each of us truly has. Oh, and share this article with someone you love who needs a wake-up call. We can bring this House of Covid Cards down as soon as we choose freedom.


Where are All Our Protector Men? A Call to Conscious Action

I originally published this piece on in August 2020. Within two weeks, the platform pulled my article because the organization’s “Trust & Safety” committee started investigating it under their new COVID-19 censorship “rules.” I decided to post it here in a lightly edited version. Thank your for your readership!

Much of the world is grinding to an ugly, unnecessary economic and spiritual halt because of a boogeyman “killer virus” so sneaky that it hasn’t been isolated, purified, or seen under a microscope. Where are the questions? Who is inquiring into the data and the data creators, or the media? Why are credible professionals and their evidence being suppressed, ridiculed, de-platformed, and defunded? We live in the most sanitized modern global society that ever existed; so why is this the first time that governments around the world are “mandating” face mask wearing, physical distancing, massive forced business/non-profit/school closures, and quarantining of healthy people because of a “viral” outbreak?

People are indeed succumbing to a virus: It’s a mind-virus keeping them plugged 24/7 into social media and “tell-a-vision,” feeding them “fear porn” based on incomplete data at best — and outright lies at worst. Most people have given up all personal agency, instead demanding that “government” agencies tell them what to do. Rather than use adult logic, like looking for evidence of a real global epidemic (e.g., millions of people dying in a week’s time), they look to tech nerds who ease their anxious, virus-ridden minds with promises of another “version” of “improved operating systems,” which typically involve pills and vaccines, both of which effects have been known to maim and kill even while their makers reap untold profits and remain legally immune (haha, that’s funny). Rather than question the situation — “what’s really going on here?” — based on past deception and manipulation by governments and their agents, people are caught up in a whirlwind of arbitrary and confusing statements, all of which on mainstream media are not predicated on evidence.

The mind-spell is so strong that there are people no longer hugging their own kids. Yet I’ve seen some kissing their kids through a piece of dirty, damp cloth they’ve been wearing and touching all day that is covered with bacteria and other pathogens, which not only can be seen under a microscope, can do far more damage than any supposed virus ever did or will do. People are rushing out in fear to get tested for the sneaky “killer virus,” even though the test cannot and does not test for infection, and should not be used to do so according to the inventor of the RT/PCR test. People are cutting off their own —and their children’s — oxygen supply while increasing CO2 intake behind face masks because governors have issued “mandates” and businesses are complying as if these are laws, which they are not. Governors do not make laws. Governors, however, do work for their constituents, us, and they are legally and morally obligated to protect our freedoms as enumerated in both their state constitution and the federal constitution.

Still, women, children, and grown men (yes, grown MEN) are entering businesses—and even participating in outdoor activities — wearing face masks because a sign on a door or a talking head on tv or a politician on FaceBook says to do so. Many people are begging for a vaccine, even though they don’t know a single person who died from this virus who wasn’t already 65+ and with one or more serious health deficiencies, like heart disease, cancer, or obesity. People are abjectly refusing to take responsibility for their own personal health, eating cheap poisonous food-like substances like never-molding french fries and sugar-filled Frappuccinos, while gladly accepting a toxic cocktail of genetically modified organisms, heavy metals, human fetal tissue, animal tissue, and, coming soon, microchips for tracking — injected directly into the bloodstream, bypassing the crucial digestion microbiome.

This current nightmare scenario is nothing but a result of social programming being lapped up by people more interested in a snuggly, safe, and secure world than living in true freedom. I call this social engineering the 7 Ds Agenda of destabilization, dehumanization, demoralization, debt, destruction, decrepitude, and death. But it would all go away if enough men 1) turn off the mainstream media and ignored unlawful signs on stores, 2) super-tune their brains’ reasoning processes in order to see the deception by government and its agents, and 3) stand up to all of the unlawful practices by — firstly — not wearing a face mask.

Seriously, men, stop it. Just STOP IT. You are an adult with, I want to assume, functional cognitive abilities and considerable physical strength. Remove the muzzle and use your powerful voice to say you disagree with the policy: Say that government has taken a step too far, that you and you alone will decide what is good and right for your health. If you feel the need for justification, get a medical or religious exemption card at Or show store managers a card printed with the sections of the state or federal Constitution guaranteeing to uphold your free and equal access to all businesses regardless of policy. If you work for the government, I understand that you have a unique contract. But, please, realize that if they try to fire, fine, or otherwise punish, intimidate, or threaten you, you have recourse, and not just under man-made laws. You have sovereignty as a natural being. The “authorities” have absolutely no moral, mental, physical, or spiritual agency over you — and they know it. But YOU have to tell them. And you tell them by not wearing a face mask — not now, and not ever — as it the symbol of your enslavement to their agenda (see 7 Ds above).

The time is NOW, later than it has ever been, to refute every faction of immoral, illegitimate bands of criminals who have robbed and extorted you and all of us — for little if anything in return. (“Oh, but the roads, schools, unemployment benefits….”) They have kidnapped and caged men like you for simply growing a certain plant; kidnapped and caged women who fought against real criminals threatening to rape or kill them; kidnapped and caged people for not paying the criminal extortion fees they demand, which are used almost entirely for heinous, harmful activities that you surely do not condone because they harm society’s most vulnerable people.

Men of the world, we are all counting on you to stand in your divine strength as the Creator would have you. Stand alongside tens or thousands or millions of your fellow freedom defending men, and say, “No. Enough is enough. No longer will we cower under lies while you illegitimate bands of criminals control our lives and fuck with our minds, hearts, and bodies, our very sovereignty.”

Stand and protect humanity! I’m not saying that women cannot aid in the defense of our freedom, and for what it’s worth, I have not and will not wear a face mask, ever. But I myself am a fairly small woman, and so I defer to you, men, to do what I cannot: Physically stand up to these evil controlling forces and defend our Creator-given rights. All you have to do is to refuse to wear a face mask, anywhere. Tell the managers of these establishments that the mandates are NOT LAWS, and even if they WERE laws, they would be immoral by any standard. If an “authority” figure (or a particularly ruthless patron) tries to bully you, tell them to stand down to Natural Law and get the fuck out of your way. Maybe you want to go the philosophical route and ask them politely if they might like it if someone demands they quit smoking cigarettes, or they must drive a Prius, or they are required to survive solely on tea and sunshine, all “for their own good and the good of others.” Or just leave and refuse to do business with such pathetic “government” sponsored bullies and their minions — but at least you’ve given them a piece of your right mind.

Look, I get it: The world is a hard place, filled rude assholes who will shame you for refusing to wear a face mask — because they’re too weak to refuse doing so themselves. They are like crabs in a pot of increasingly hot water: One crab endeavors to escape but the others try to drag it back in to the pot. But you are strong and you’re not letting them drag you back down. Without you, men, humanity cannot escape total enslavement at the pettiness of such humans and the cruelty of the would-be “gods.” Masks are just the beginning of the controllers’ dehumanizing agenda. They want to OWN us (in fact, they already believe they DO own us), and to turn us into trans-human robot-like hive-mind creatures with no soul or spirit who would only “exist” to serve them and their sick, twisted reality. Don’t believe me? Use your infantilizing “shelter-at-home” reality-shit-show time to research outside of the mainstream media, and find out how deep the rabbit hole goes. I’m dead serious.

Time is running out. Men, you are humanity’s last, greatest hope in the final epic battle for our sovereignty, for our souls, and for a future of true, enduring sovereignty. Act now, or forever regret the immoral decision to choose comfort over freedom.

Frankie: February 15, 2018 – February 13, 2021

Frankie—an intense, sweet, silly Persian cat that we loved through every minute of his life with us—pictured here on May 2020

In July 2018, my husband Ron and I adopted (more like, rescued) a five-month-old ginger Himalayan Persian cat named Frankie. We gave him his full name: Franklin Timothy Minchin XV, but over his time with us, he gained many nicknames: Doodle; Mowmie (which stands for Mini Orange Wooly Mammoth); Muffin; and my favorite, Grumble Bunny. He got that last one because of the unique grumbling/growl he made when he was happy. Frankie was not a high-energy cat from day one, and he didn’t care to play with toys. He had a strange breathing issue that made his sides move in and out, even when he was at rest, but which worsened when he felt stressed. He randomly peed and pooped all over the house—even after we got a second, huge litter box—up until his last day alive. Frankie had trauma-based issues, and lots of them.

For example, during the first several months of Frankie living in our home—which is a pretty chill place, I might add—he spent a lot of time hanging out in our bathtubs and sinks. He didn’t do much in the way of detailed preening like healthy Persian cats do, like clean his schmutzy little face. (We cleaned it for him every other day, and loved him through all the other challenges presented. And by the way, the doctors never found anything wrong with him during routine checkups and lab work.)

Six-month-old Frankie in our guest bathroom sink, August 7, 2018: Time to get a tissue!

We did all we could to keep Frankie out of these hard, sometimes wet, not-relaxing spaces. After about 10-12 months, he did give up the desire to isolate himself, and spent most of his time in all the best cat-friendly places in our home. Evenings, while I cleaned up after dinner, he enjoyed hanging out with Ron in the satellite office.

Frankie on the futon in Ron’s satellite office, November 2018: Please let me stay a while longer!

And nothing says “retreat” like mommy and daddy’s bed! All mine!

Frankie, at 10 months, on our bed, looking very fluffy a few days after kitty salon, just before Christmas 2018

Nilla, our older female Seal-Point Himalayan Persian, did persecute Frankie somewhat in the first year or so. She is extremely fastidious, and she also acts like the queen of the house (even though she knows that she is the princess, and mommy is the queen), which is how I think she justified treating Frankie like a dirty little boy. There wasn’t much Ron and I could do while we slept. But during the day—because I work from home—I was able to manage and slowly change the dynamic. Also, Frankie got really big, really fast, and his alpha-cat awesomeness started to shine through, despite his health problems. Of course, this doesn’t diminish Nilla’s own amazingness!

Frankie and Nilla after his first 11 months in our home: Beauty and the Beast?!

Frankie’s personality developed quickly as well, in many ways. He had several unique vocalizations. There was his “water song” that he sang, day or night, while pawing at the water dish. It sounded like a kitty dirge but with a sort of amazement quality, like he was saying, “Wow! Water! I love you! Please don’t leave me.” There was his morning appeal to Ron for brushies on his favorite pedestal (I could actually hear him say, “Ron! Ron! Come on!”). And there was my favorite Frankie sound—that of him purring— which was a gruff purr and a sweet song and a bit of gripe, all happening simultaneously and inspiring me to call him Grumble Bunny. Despite his physical and emotional challenges, Frankie was making a delightful transformation!

In the last year, Frankie very much limited his jumping to specific places. For example, Frankie used to sleep on our bed, at my feet. More specifically, at night, he would wait until I was ready to turn off the light and was laying on my back with legs spread so he could nestle in between my feet!

Frankie resting on my side of the bed while Nilla is on Ron’s side

In his last few days, Frankie didn’t sleep on the the bed, which made me feel very sad. And I noticed that during his last 4-5 months, he would still jump up on his pedestal for morning brushies, but for evening brushies, he often avoided hopping up and I had to pick him up and place him on the pedestal. He was still happy to have the loving attention, though!

Frankie, still a kitten, on the pedestal (look at his excited waving tail!)

Frankie’s personality came out in other ways. For example, Ron and I tore out the carpeting and linoleum in our entire house in order to stain and seal the concrete. Here is a photo of Frankie photo-bombing the photo of our living room floor that was stained, sealed, dry, and ready to sit overnight before returning the furniture. He did love to be the center of attention, and he was never pushy or aggressive but always a perfect blend of graceful and goofy!

Famous photo-bombing Frankie!

My personal favorite time with Frankie was any time he came to me or called out to me as I was traversing between one side of the house and the other. I would pet him and he would start walking around the living room. If I stopped petting him, he would look back at me and encourage me to keep petting. I called this “The Tour” because some of the sessions would go on for several minutes through the common area of the house. At some point—whenever Frankie decided it was time—he would flop down on the floor in the cutest, silliest way and demand that I scratch his chin. I called this part “Frankie’s Famous Flop-Down.” Sometimes, he would even let me rub his belly for five or six seconds. Every “tour” was a completely new adventure for us both.

I knew that tensions between Nilla and Frankie were easing when they started trading “special places” with each other. For example, Nilla likes to sleep in the in-box on my desk, and Frankie started making it clear that he was very interested in doing so.

Nilla’s “IN” and Frankie’s “OUT”

And then, one day, it just happened: I found Nilla on Frankie’s favorite pedestal, and Frankie in the in-box! I really wasn’t sure how he got his huge body in that little space, but clearly he made it work:

Sweet spot next to Mommy!

I was also fortunate to capture the rare “Ultimate Two-Persian-Cat Portrait Pose” in December 2020:

Me: OMG! Rare photo opp! Thank you, kitties! Them: Arguing over who gets to sleep under the piano bench.

Things took a sudden, wild turn in early February 2021 when Ron and I hosted “Kitty Salon,” an event during which we bathe the cats in our kitchen sink.

Needless to say, they hate Kitty Salon, but they love feeling clean and fluffing out after a day or two (no blow-dryers here). They were both accustomed to this process, since we bathed them every 6-8 weeks. Well, Frankie panicked for the first time and it took him a full night and day to recover. His little heart was pounding and he was panting for several hours. Even the next day, fully dry, he was lethargic and breathing heavily. Thankfully, after another day, he started eating and drinking again. He wanted brushies and treats.

Sadly, things got worse again. He stopped pooping. Then Nilla stopped pooping. Days went on. He acted normally but was dropping weight and barely eating (except for treats after brushies). Assuming that he was severely constipated, I tried several over-the-counter and natural orally administered products to assist with bowel movements. (Ron and I both agreed that Nilla was exhibiting “sympathy pains” and was likely fine.)

Saturday, February 13, while Ron was working, I took Frankie and Nilla to emergency service at the veterinary hospital because they weren’t still pooping and we thought they had impacted colons. The doctor called me 45 minutes after Frankie’s intake (because, as you know, medical practices are not allowing family inside the facility), telling me that Frankie had no stool in his colon and he was panting uncontrollably. She also said that there was fluid coming out of his nose. She wanted to give him a mild sedative before continuing the exam; I agreed, and she said she would call me again.

I walked outside to our mailbox. The sun popped out from behind a cloud as I stepped onto the street. I know now that this was Frankie. But I digress.

The doctor called fifteen minutes after her previous call. She said, “Frankie’s not doing well.” “What does that mean?” I asked. She said that Frankie had started open-mouth panting and they were unable to give him the sedative because he went physically out of control. “Okay, what then?” She said, “And then he stopped breathing.” I gasped. She continued, “And his heart stopped, so I immediately intubated him and he’s breathing again.” Tears spilled out of my eyes and I had to ask, even though I knew the answer, “So if you take the tube out, he won’t breathe on his own. He’s gone.” She said, “Yes.” I told her to remove the tube.

She had questions: “Do you want to cremate him?” and so on. I went numb. My Grumble Bunny was gone.

I hung up the phone and screamed for two minutes.

And then I called Ron.

(The doctor said she believes that, based on Ron’s and my observations and her medical experience, Frankie had some kind of congenital heart condition that was worsening. She said that these kind of conditions don’t typically show up in cats until very late stages, when it’s difficult to treat them.)

The rest of the vet story is that Nilla finally got her exam and, while she also had no stool in her colon and needs some probiotics to return to perfect health, she was fine, and I am very happy for my little Beanie Baby. As I create this post, she is back in her (my) in-box. The last two mornings, she greeted me from Frankie’s favorite pedestal.

And I know in my heart that the sun coming out Saturday on my trip to the mailbox was Frankie’s bright light shining on me as his powerful little spirit ascended to Source, the God Point, the Zeroth Dimension of Divine Consciousness and Love.

But Frankie died without me (and Ron) there with him in his final moments. Would our presence as Frankie’s people-parents have saved his life? Perhaps, but no one will know that after the fact. And regardless of anyone else’s beliefs about the pandemic, we feel that it is abjectly horrific and inhumane to separate loved ones from each other, especially at medical facilities, where the sheer amount of trauma is literally in the air, and where LOVE is needed more than ever. I’m not saying the staff at Atascadero Pet Hospital are not kind, because they are. I’m saying that I feel outraged at the fact that my fuzzy little Frankie died without us there to comfort him in the worst moments of his far-too-short life because of measures that are clearly leading to needless destruction, despair, desperation, and death. I’m not saying that my and Ron’s presence would have saved Frankie’s for certain, but we will never know, will we? I don’t want to make this political, but if you don’t yet know anyone who has been separated against their will from their loved ones in the past year, now you do, and it is horrible.

I encourage everyone reading this post to use this opportunity to let your BROKEN HEART heal as it fills with Frankie’s love and light, and to use your best Grumble Bunny voice to tell the world: It’s time to return to LOVE. We know what love is, and that’s not what is happening right now. Speak up and out in your own unique, creative way, because the heart of humanity needs YOU.

Frankie, cheek resting on his Dr. Suess-creature-like paw, looking cozy on our bed, December 2019

Franklin Timothy Minchin XV, “Frankie,” has transitioned to kitty heaven and returned to a state of pure consciousness, of love and light. Look for his unique energetic signature in bowls of water, on window pedestals, and on adventurous “tours” of love and “flop-downs” for freedom in your life.


NOTE: All written material and images contained herein are my own, except the photo “Frankie on Ron’s Lap,” which I am using with permission from the author, Ron Hagadone. If you want to use any of these photos, please create a proper attribution that includes: Sharine Borslien, Copyright 2018-2021, All Rights Reserved, OR in the case of Ron Hagadone’s photo, use his name and Copyright 2020. In your post, please include a link somewhere to this blog post. Thank you.

Teenage Rebels (Not)

On Wednesday this week, I did a substitute teaching job at my local high school. The class was an elective, or what some schools call a “preferred” class: mixed choir.

Things started out on a positive note with some laughs we all shared during roll call. I announced the regular teacher’s plan for the period and told the students what I expected from them during our time together. This all seemed fine. Then I drew their attention to a classmate who had been prepped by the regular teacher to play CDs of songs and medleys for possible future concert performances by the choir and to gauge their interest in the music. This required active attention.

Most of the students were listening and singing along (which I encouraged), and then the disruptions began. I was able to get things under control at each outburst, but by the last forty minutes of the period, I was exhausted, feeling frustrated at the students who were outright disrespecting not only me but their fellow classmates who genuinely wanted to listen and sing along. After the lead student played the last song, “Stairway to Heaven,” I redirected their focus with a discussion of the band who composed it, Led Zeppelin. This worked for a few minutes. I decided to have the choir sing two of their concert pieces for me — that worked well, and for all of ten minutes, they were like angels (and they sounded like angels, too!).

Apparently, though, I underestimated the desire for [some] students to waste their precious time in their favorite class, because the place practically erupted in chit-chat, loud laughter, listening to music on phones, and elopements to other parts of the classroom. I stood silently, hoping that they would “get it,” and the lead student implored his classmates to quiet down: all to no avail.

In the end, I marched close to the group, startling a few students and eventually getting them to pay attention to me. I told them that I am a musician, too, and that when I go to band practice, I listen to the band leader. I don’t waste time talking about inane topics or goofing off with bandmates while the leader tries to get us to make music. No. I pay attention, because that’s exactly where I want to be, doing the thing I love. I told them that I knew choir was a preferred class, and that they had chosen this class for the same reason I choose to be in a band: to learn songs and make music. “So,” I said, “if you aren’t here to listen to these songs and sing along, then you can excuse yourself now because you don’t belong here. You made the wrong choice.” No one left the room, and for the rest of the period, they were relatively respectful, aside from their sour faces. Oh, I know [my pretend pout]. The sting of being called on your childish bullshit, so harsh.

When I got home, I immediately starting making an elaborate lasagna-type casserole for dinner. I spent nearly three hours in the kitchen, prepping each layer and cooking the marinara. The whole time, my mind would not let go of my classroom experience from that day. In fact, I even sent the regular teacher an email message to share what had transpired; it felt important to me that she know how poorly most of her students behaved in her absence. I thought this action would relieve my mind of arguing against their disrespectful behavior, but it did not. I listened to thoughts bubbling to consciousness as my mind formulated a speech. That said, here is what I would like to say to those students — in particular, to the ones who were openly disruptive, but to them all in general. My claim is that they are not the rebels they pretend to be: they are merely immature, disrespectful, and apparently willing to dispense of their own professed values at any opportunity. My arguments follow.

My elementary school building in Wisconsin, all closed up now.

Dear Children:

I know some of you might think that because I am a substitute teacher, it is “rebellious” of you as teenagers to flagrantly disrespect me. Maybe that’s because I am not your regular teacher, who you will see day in and day out and who likely does not tolerate such “rebellious” behavior; that is, you think you can get away with it. And on some puerile (that means childish) level, your repetitive disruption in class does indeed represent a form of rebellion, one against an authority figure who you don’t really know and therefore don’t want to offer respect. Perhaps you don’t know how to give people the benefit of the doubt. I can understand that sort of thinking because, after all, you are children. Specifically, you are children who have not learned to respect substitute teachers. Maybe you haven’t learned to respect any adults, or anyone for that matter. Maybe you are jaded because you’ve been burned too many times by your own parents and other adults, and now you don’t know when it is safe to trust. If this is true, I have genuine empathy for you. Because here’s the deal: in the real world, most adults are worthy of your trust and respect. Yeah, that’s right. Most of us get an automatic “pass” because we have earned it: we are mature and conscientious and we earnestly want to treat you right and help you do right. In other words, we really show up for you. Sure, some adults get an automatic “fail” because they are immature, they bail on you. And let’s be clear: that’s not me.

But let me get back to you. You likely believe yourselves to be “rebels” by being disruptive, but you’re not really rebelling; you’re simply acting like children. You lack self-control. True rebels, in the classic narrative sense, are committed to a cause that is much larger than themselves and petty, narcissistic whims of absolute power. A true rebel has self-control. A true rebel fights big stuff, like injustice, inequality, systemic racism and sexism, and tyrannical rulers, for a few examples. Think MLK, Susan B. Anthony, Ghandi, Malala. Think Tom Morello, Black Flag, Sex Pistols. See the difference? Their desires are to disrupt powerful systems of corruption, oppression, and human suppression. Your desire to disrupt the classroom has as its so-called “cause” the ill-conceived notion that your personal, individual, selfish wants to watch the latest videos and read the latest Twitter posts by some talentless music hack are larger than the fact that you are in school to learn, which requires focused work. But you are wrong. Your non-cause (that is, getting out of doing your school work) is pathetic. It presumes that you are more important than a true cause like, oh, I don’t know, rampant sexual assault in our country. But you are not more important than victims of sexual assault — you just aren’t. (Unless you are a victim, in which case I urge you to seek help.)

Here’s another example along that line. In the name of being a “bad-ass rebel-child,” you insult the wisdom, intelligence, dignity, and entire life experience of someone like myself, a 52-year-old woman who has been sexually assaulted and harassed multiple times and otherwise violated, oppressed, and dismissed as a rule by a rich-white-heterosexual-male hegemonic social construct that has been in place for some 10,000 years and has recently proven upon the election of popular-vote-losing Donald J. Trump that it is totally fine to vociferously hate women, even when they meet your arbitrary “hotness” goals, even if you claim you love them. Hence, if you insult my dignity as a woman, you and your fake rebel status are part of the problem.

You insult the fact that, despite all I endure, I am happily married to the man of my dreams and we own our home. You insult the hard decision I made to move far away from my midwest home to California, where I knew no one, to successfully become a singer-songwriter-musician who plays multiple instruments, has written and recorded numerous CDs and a few hundred songs, toured the nation, and continues to create and perform. You insult the fact that I had the initiative to write and publish a nonfiction book and three poetry books, write three full-length screenplays and produce a movie from one of them. You insult the fact that I teach music and do graphic design to make a living in addition to my efforts as a substitute teacher in the public school system. You insult the fact that I returned to college at the age of 43 to complete my BA in Communication Studies (which took eight grueling years of part-time study and incurred nearly $50,000 in student loan debt). During my studies, I created numerous lengthy works of scholarship, graduating with high honors and the respect of my teachers, fellow students, friends, and family. By the way, that degree allowed me to study further and pay even more to become certificated so that I could come to your classroom and [do my best to] have fun while we learn together. But there was no fun to be had, because you were too busy insulting me and my efforts.

And on that note about my effort, you actually insult the very nature of my being, which is to learn and then share that learning with the world at large, whether through singing and songwriting, performing, photo editing, teaching, or just about anything I do in my life — including writing this blog post. Simply put, you insult the very idea of human striving for betterment of self and society. So you not only insult me, you insult every single person trying to get better, advance, evolve, grow, whatever you want to call it, on a mind-body-soul level — people who want to improve their lives by improving other people’s lives. But that’s not you.

Yes, because of the mediated, vainglorious, self-serving image you hold of yourself as a kick-ass rebel, you fail to see anyone, like myself, who has worked diligently over decades, starting from humble beginnings but making difficult decisions and taking risks, sometimes falling down but always getting back up — smarter, stronger, and more humble — to forge a life worth living. Perhaps worse is that, in a terrible twist, you allow your childish ways to also obscure, obfuscate, and obstruct any glimpse of accurate self-reflection and self-correction, which are vital to becoming a real adult and a true rebel regardless of age. I know 12-year-old girls that have more maturity and rebelliousness in the pockets of their skinny jeans than you do in your whole being — at least the being you were willing to show me that day.

Maybe you want to argue that you are “really mature,” but fell temporarily into a never-happened-before group-think with all your cool pals. Nope, not buying it. True maturity, as with true rebel status, can be claimed only by those who stand alone when friends and family and community question the cause. Think Harriet Tubman and Joan of Arc. True rebels are willing to suffer the consequences of actively, nonviolently leading the fight for something much, much bigger than themselves. True rebels have no problem being alone, standing out from the crowd. In fact, many of them prefer solitude to — guess what? — the awful noise of social group insularity. Ever notice how some of the most “popular” people in every arena are usually the most insecure, thin-skinned, braying asses around? No, I didn’t think you noticed. Most of you are too busy further elevating these frightening — and frighteningly powerful — celebrities.

So let’s face it: you have no cause. If you did, you’d have come to me after class, asking me to sign a petition to fight for indigenous people’s rights in Ecuador; or asking me to donate to your fundraiser to fight back against the nomination of racists to the popular-vote-losing Trump’s staff; or getting my opinion on a song you are writing in support of ending rape culture and gendered violence; or inviting me to attend a school play you are acting in that advocates combatting climate change. Read the key words: fight, advocate, support: these are the the true rebel’s core verbs that speak to enacting their cause. So until you have a real cause, please, please stop thinking that you are acting like a rebel because, today, you showed me that you’re nothing but a fake — an insulting, childish fake.

When you’ve done some serious soul-searching, when you’ve patched together your inner mini-warrior from whatever wreckage you feel you’ve endured, and when you’ve found something bigger than your deluded, disrespectful, feckless, spoon-fed self, don’t come to me. Get going and get growing so you can save humanity from fake rebels like you used to be. It starts with you.

I wish for you a smooth process of maturing and becoming true rebels with worthy causes, but if you hit some rocky patches, please don’t give up.


Sharine Borslien (a.k.a., Ms. Shari)

P.S. To those students who were participating in a respectful, appropriate manner, THANK YOU. I see in you hope for a better future.

* * * * * * *








Scooter: July 20, 2003 – November 1, 2016

Why do we do it? Why do we have pets, knowing their life spans are typically shorter than ours, that our love for them is as for any family member or friend for whom we invest much time and great care? I hope this tribute will answer that question for any of you who don’t already know the answer. For those of you who know, please enjoy the abbreviated Story of Scootie.

Back Story on Scooter

Scooter (also nicknamed Scootie, Scoots, Munchie, Scootie Patootie, Punkin, and later, Little Grandpa) came into my husband Ron’s and my life after a sad accident. It was six days prior to our wedding day, and my sister and her husband were coming to stay with us the next night before we all drove to L.A. for the big four days of wedding activities. Ron and I needed to do some errands that Tuesday night to prepare for their arrival. It was dark when we returned, traveling on a narrow road that parallels the freeway with a fence to our left and a ditch and field to our right. Suddenly, a fluffy grey kitten bolted out onto the road from the right directly in front of the car, and there was no time, no way, to avoid her/him. We felt the horrible thump, stopped the car immediately, and Ron said he saw the injured kitten slink back into the ditch. We decided to move the car as far off the road as possible and have a moment of silence for the little life that we ostensibly took. I told Ron that I had never hit an animal with my car, and he said the same for him. We both cried. Drying our tears, we decided that we would open our lives up to a cat and that we would call him or her Scooter, in honor of the kitten that had scooted across the road.

Finding Scooter

I found Scootie, an adorable Black Smoke Persian, in a pet store in Arroyo Grande in late October. He had been born the day after Ron and I got married: the day we returned to our Atascadero home from our wedding in LA. The minute I saw this kitten, I knew I loved him. His fur was a bit thin so he looked kind of scraggly, and long tufts of fur were spouting from his tiny black ears. He fussed a bit when I held him, making this endearing “ack” sound. He was small, clearly the runt of the litter, and I saw the other kittens in the pen squeezing him out of the food dish and pushing away from the toys; but he didn’t want to fight. I recognized that Scootie needed a special home, a chill place like Ron and I have, in which to spend his beautiful life.

Scooter (a.k.a., Scootie) just before his second birthday, July 5, 2005. Sadly, we lost earlier photos when a hard drive crashed and was irreparable.


As it turned out, Scootie really was a sweet, loving cat with not a mean bone in his body. Our older cat Jazz was an intense, solid white, pedigreed Himalayan Persian with a fierceness that we think helped him live to be 15 1/2 years old. The two cats bonded on a level that Ron and I say was like Beatrix Kiddo and Pai Mei in Kill Bill: Scootie, of course, being the student with chops to cut, and Jazz being the master teacher. Jazz (also known as Bubba, Pharaoh, Grandpa, Mister, and The World’s Most Perfect Cat), was tough on Scoots, but their unique relationship bore countless moments of endearment. 

This was a popular box for weeks! Scootie and Jazz in our apartment, February, 2006.

Both cats hated to pose, but we occasionally found them side by side. Scootie, being the younger, smaller cat, desperately wanted Jazz’s love and approval.

Scootie and Jazz in our brand new house, December 19, 2006.

Jazz had spent many long hours during his final two years on planet Earth in the corner our closet, resting on a bunch of shoes in almost total darkness. When Bubba died in June 2008, Scootie showed his sweet, sentimental nature, wailing night and day for nearly five months in mourning for Jazz . . .  until we got him a companion, Nilla.


Nilla (also Bean, Missy Bean, Missy Messy, and Miss Precious Perfect) is a Seal Point Himalayan Persian that fell in love with Ron upon sight and there was no way we were not taking her home. She likes to think she is the Queen, but I gently remind her that there can be only one Queen; she is the Princess. Nilla and Scootie did not appear to bond well, as Nilla was quite bossy to him. She frequently tipped over the food and water bowls in flagrant displays of either control or angry chaos, flung her stinky poop outside their litter box (Scootie, all the while, was fastidious), and cheated him out of his precious playtime by cutting in at every session. But they, like Jazz and Scootie, had plenty of cherishable times together.

Scootie and Nilla, watching the rain fall on our back patio, January 20, 2010.


But most importantly, Nilla defended Scootie against the Ace of Spades.

Ace of Spades

Ace, or Beastie, as we grew to call him, adopted us in our back yard in August 2012. He simply hopped over our fence and wooed Ron into us getting him fixed and vaccinated for rapid move-in. Ace, a 22-lb miniature panther with a huge set of [scary] chompers, literally dominated life in our little castle. (I say dominated, past tense, because we had to bequeath Ace to another family.) He would rove about day and night, muscling himself into every peaceful situation that existed. But here’s the caveat: he was genuinely nice about it. No kidding. He would stroll into a room and in a flash, pounce on little Scootie, then whine when Scoots would high-tail it out of Ace’s sight. Scootie wanted peace, Ace wanted play, all the time, play, but he didn’t know his own strength . . . or recognize Scootie’s lack of interest in the Worst. Matchup. Ever.

Beastie, 22 pounds, next to Scootie, 7.5 pounds, December 10, 2011.

Fortunately for little Scootie, Nilla holds grudges . . .  for a long, loooong time. Hours would pass after an Ace attack on her or Scootie, and Ace would be stretched out on the floor in the sun, clueless to the terror he had inflicted. Nilla would strike suddenly, causing him to cry and run until she had him quivering in a corner, terrified and mewling. While I don’t condone violence, it was satisfying to see Ace get his comeuppance by our teeny tiny 7.5-lb. Nilla.

Not all moments were torturous: the three kitties somehow found common ground aside from the feeding trough. Ron and I were happy — and perhaps a bit astonished — by these seemingly cuddly times. They seemed so . . .  content with each other. What were we missing? Because this looked like cat paradise:

Scootie (in front) warms himself in a bit of sun with Nilla (upper left) and Ace of Spades “Beastie” (upper right) in a rare photo, December 2014.

Things changed immediately after Beastie moved to Grover Beach to live with our friend Nathan and his grandson. Our house became quiet again. See, I forgot to mention that Ace L-O-V-E-D me so much that he wanted my attention all the time. He vocalized almost constantly — and what a vocabulary! While annoying, it was also entertaining because we could hear distinct words and phrases. For example, when I would scold Ace, I could hear him say, “Awww, man!” No kidding. Regardless of his cartoon-like cuteness, we had to erect a barrier to the computer cables and stuff under my desk because he perpetually tried to get back there and muck around. While the barrier was effective, it didn’t keep Beastie from annoying me all day as I tried to work and study; Ron had to build a screen door of sorts that we could put up and take down easily. Again, the door kept him physically out of my space, but allowed him to terrorize Scootie and destroy furniture  elsewhere in the house until I could take the door down and stop him. Dealing with Ace was a thorn in my side. Hell, it was a rhino horn in my side. But he was so sweet! It was a hard decision at first because he loved Ron and me hugely, but in the end, we had to separate. I still miss him, but I am happy that for Scootie’s last six months of life, Beastie was not around to physically and psychologically abuse him. Nobody deserves that!

Scootie’s Refuge

A smart cat, Scootie found a safe space at night sleeping on the pillow sham behind my head. Ron and I placed a “satellite water dish” on my night stand so he didn’t have to leave his refuge and risk being molested by Beastie at the regular kitty feeding station.

Scootie looks up from his satellite water dish on my night stand. He is stretched out with back feet on the edge of our bed, December 20, 2015.

Also, Ron and I think that his yoga-like routine at the satellite water dish helped strengthen his muscles and distribute positive energy throughout his aging system. Scootie felt snuggly, safe, and secure in this space, and eventually this would become even more clear: we were looking out for him on all fronts. And isn’t this what we should all be doing for each other, especially for the most fragile, sensitive, and targeted in our world? We say a resounding YES. YES. YES.

Scootie’s Last Weeks

In August, I took Scootie to the vet for his senior checkup and had some blood work done, which indicated a possible blockage or other condition. The vet recommended an ultrasound, but we had heard from a good friend what that involves (a real life nightmare for pet, vet assistant, and pet parents), and no way were we going to put Scoots through any such procedures at his age. (This was a hard call for us, as it is for many pet parents, so please judge us with feathers instead of bricks.) With that decision made, I researched ways to make sure his #2s were moving nicely and regularly, and decided to feed him canned organic pure pumpkin daily. This worked out well since he lapped up a teaspoon a day in the first week and gradually ate about a heaping tablespoon daily in two servings.

Scootie (“Punkin”) eating pumpkin, August 22, 2016.

I think the joy he experienced in eating this treat that he loved combined with being spoon-fed made him feel special at first, mostly because Nilla wouldn’t eat the pumpkin. And this process definitely changed the quality of his #2s for the better. By early October, Nilla expressed interest in the pumpkin, and I think this, in small part, turned him off to it. Another factor may have been his waning interest in food altogether, even when, on October 25, I brought him to the vet after he had not eaten solid food nor pooped for a few days. She recommended a special canned food that I purchased that day, and offered an appetite stimulant, which I bought the next day and gave to him immediately at home. No change. He continued to drink lots of water, but ate no solid food, refusing pumpkin, canned food, dry food with added water, and so on.

Scootie, looking regal in front of our piano, October 26, 2016.

Ron and I administered a second dose of the appetite stimulant on the third day according to directions, but we saw no increase in his desire for food. He was not exhibiting signs of distress, anxiety, or fear. Love, however, was still his mainstay. We decided that a natural death for Scootie was in his best interest: he should pass in his home with his loved ones in the easiest, gentlest way possible. The challenge was, for both Ron and me, going through that process for the first time ever.

Final Days for Scootie

During the last seven days, Scootie parked himself under Ron’s desk, which was in the same small room behind my desk, so he was nearby. As days went by, he was spending more time deeper in his space. We placed another satellite water dish here for him, and set up the space heater to keep him warm and cozy. He occasionally came out for water and affection.

Scootie hanging out amongst the cables under Ron’s desk, October 29, 2016.

He would also let me brush him on these outings, and allow Ron and I to hold him for a few minutes. Scootie never really cared to be held too long; it was his nature to be petted and groomed — but not confined. He was a true free spirit.

Final Day

Scootie’s last full day on Earth was Monday, October 31, 2016. It was one of the most difficult days of both Ron’s and my life, as Scootie peacefully declined hour by hour, all the while maintaining his dignity and loving nature. I was home all day with Scoots. Always fastidious, he tried to find his way to the bathroom with the litter box rather than piddle on the carpet, but instead, he twice made it only to the guest bathroom where he emptied his bladder of perhaps a couple of teaspoons of fluid. One of those times, I found him and when I petted him, he began mewling like a kitten. His breathing was becoming more labored over time, and he had difficulty walking more than ten steps at a time. He was still able to make it to the water dish in the kitchen throughout the morning and early afternoon.

Scootie resting near the water dish (1), October 31, 2016.

Such a gorgeous little creature. Helpful websites offered information about what to expect from him physically throughout this process. One sign of his last hours is his lowered head and sleepy-looking eyes, which we started to see in his last day.

Scootie resting near the water dish (2), October 31. 2016.

He eventually moved out from under Ron’s desk into our bedroom closet. I placed a dish of water next to him, and spread out his favorite blanket, a cream-colored afghan that my mother, long since passed, had crocheted for me more than twenty years ago (see photo above with Scootie, Nilla, and Ace on the afghan). During this time, I was checking on him every five to ten minutes, offering as much love as he seemed able to handle.

Ron came home from work, and we followed through on our plan to drive to San Luis Obispo for dinner while hundreds of trick-or-treaters descended on our neighborhood. Afterward, we pit-stopped at TJ’s for some provisions, all the while wondering what Scootie’s state would be when got home.

Final Hours

We found Scootie resting in our bedroom beneath a dining room chair, a favorite spot of his for the last few years, although up until October, he slept as much under as on top of the chair, which was covered in my mom’s afghan. Scootie moved out about four feet and rested in front of our dresser, which is across from the foot of our bed. After a moment, he rose and began walking toward the litter box. I picked him up and put him in it, but he had nothing to release. (I didn’t notice until the next morning that, while we were gone that night, he had tried to get into the litter box but obviously could not, and so he relieved his bladder on the linoleum floor next to it.) I asked Ron to get Scootie’s favorite bath-time towel, and I spread it out on the floor in front of the dresser, laying him on top of it and folding the towel over him for warmth. We petted him and spoke gently to him: “Good boy, Scootie. Relax. We love you, Punkin. We are here for you.”

Ron and I tried to maintain a sense of normalcy, putting on our typical “chill” clothes and then hanging out with him for a few minutes before putting away groceries. We continued to check on him every five to ten minutes. Around 11:00 PM, we walked in and Scootie, upon seeing us, stretched out almost the full length of his tiny body, turned partially on his side so that he could make eye contact with us. We stayed with him for a while, petting him slowly and gently, until Ron decided to go to bed, leaving our low-watt nightstand lights on. I still had a few things to tidy up in the kitchen and continued to check on Scootie every few minutes.

Final Minutes

I petted Scoots, who felt much cooler to the touch. I doused the bedroom lights and turned on the light in our shower room nearby to provide some filtered light. I crawled into bed a little after midnight, but Ron and I kept hearing Scootie vocalize now and then. I slipped out of bed and retrieved the afghan, laid down next to him and covered us both, tripling up the blanket over his body. As the minutes passed and I heard his breathing become very slow, I quietly said to Ron, “Honey, I think it’s really close.” Scootie and I were making constant eye contact. Suddenly his pupils became huge, so much so that I could barely see his harvest-moon-colored irises. I saw a shimmery greenish-yellow bean of light moving in his eyes, and then golden droplets of light-energy began slowly shooting from his eyes and face. Then, spectacularly, I saw a warm light rise up from his body, making the afghan glow for three or four seconds. I knew I had witnessed Scootie’s soul leaving his body. And yet he continued breathing and his heart was beating. He turned his head so that I could not see his eyes.

Just then, Ron asked if was going to stay there or come to bed, and after a few moments, I slipped back into bed. Within a minute, Ron rose and turned on the bedroom lights. I followed him to the floor next to Scootie. Ron said, “Maybe he needs water,”  so I asked him to get a medicine dropper. As soon as Ron sat down and I had some water in the dropper, Scootie’s head turned toward Ron and I placed a few drops in his mouth. I felt his body: it was cold and he let out a final breath. “I think it’s over, Honey,” I said. Suddenly, Scootie appeared to be looking at Ron and hissed, baring his teeth four or five times. Ron was taken aback, and said, “He’s mad at me.” Then I realized that Scootie’s physiological actions were caused by the final chemicals pumping through his system as designed by animal DNA, and that what we witnessed is quite common. I tried to calm Ron: “No, Honey, this is part of the process. He’s gone. Feel his body. There is no breathing, no heartbeat. Even if he was in a coma, he would have vital signs.” Ron put his hand on Scootie’s body to confirm.

We sat there for a few minutes, tears running down our faces. Ron said, “Would you like some tea?” I said, “I need a glass of wine after all this. [pause] No, I’ll have tea with you.” We sat at our dining table, talking until we were ready to go to bed. We tried snuggling, but neither of us slept much, if at all. A couple of hours in, I saw the same shimmery, glimmery greenish-yellow light bean from Scootie’s eyes in my mind’s eye, spiraling around behind my closed eyelids. I smiled. It was Scootie. Not a doubt in my own soul.

Quirks, Kinks, and Idiosyncracies

Scootie displayed some remarkable traits and mannerisms throughout his adorable life. He was rather small with those huge harvest moon eyes and tiny nose on his precious little flat face. His tail had a funky curve at the very end, and it was noticeable as he loved to flick and flaunt that tail.

He ate his solid food, which we called “crunchies,”  by scooping a few pieces onto the floor and using his right front paw to feed himself; he always left several whole crunchies on the floor while scooping more from the dish. He was generally a good groomer except when it came to that feeding paw: he let it get crusty, and I had to regularly clean it. Ron and I called it his “skanky paw.”

Speaking of food, Scootie was always first to stand by the cabinet door where we keep the crunchies and let me know it was time to fill his dish. We called this “top o’ the mornin’ top-up” or “top o’ the evenin’ top-up”, and he was always on time for both sessions. He liked to crawl inside the crunchies cabinet and chew on plastic zip bags. In fact, he loved chewing on plastic bags in general: he would swarm around us and beg to chew on them. He would even try to get inside the refrigerator when the door was open and find the nearest bag before we had to shoo him out.

Ron had invented a game with the crunchies back when Bubba was still with us. He would position a single crunchy on the carpet and “kick” it with a finger to send it flying across the room, and then Jazz would chase it and eat it. Scootie learned this game immediately, of course: it was play time with an instant edible reward! He still played the game until the week before he died.

Because of Scootie’s nearly concave facial structure, and just being a Persian cat, his sinuses were extremely short. Whenever he lowered his head to eat or drink or groom, he would always sneeze in the cutest way: we called his sneezes “the oofies”!

Unlike some cats, Scootie did not often vocalize (apart from those four months of wailing after Jazz died). When he did speak, he had a favorite word, “ack,” which he would utter when wanting food or attention, leaving his mouth open for dramatic effect. Other vocalizations were screeches when brushing sessions went too long (he would time out at 45 seconds!) or when I spent too much time (according to him) grooming him by hand and working out knots in his fur.

Playtime was interesting as the years went on. In Scootie’s first couple of years, he would jump straight into the air to catch toys — we had never seen such a tiny creature leap so high, it was amazing! By the time he was five or six years old, the crazy jumping stopped, and he would only chase strings ‘n’ things along the floor, preferably on carpet. We would hold a piece of twine, for example, and spin really fast as he chased the end around and around and around until either he caught the thing, or we got too dizzy!

Lastly, Scootie not only loved being petted, his particular favie was having his ears rubbed; both at the same time was best. Even better was having both ears rubbed while being scratched on both sides of his chin. That was heaven on earth for little Scoots.


Ron and I chose to have Scootie’s remains cremated at Eden Pet Crematory. His ashes will be spread on a private property in Paso Robles, but he will live forever in our cherished memories of the The Biggest Little Kitty in the County.

Nilla is still in mourning on the fourth full day after Scootie passed. This initially came as somewhat of a surprise, given her bossy, competitive nature with Scootie. But upon further reflection, Nilla has strong maternal instincts: she was always trying to groom Scootie, which he wouldn’t allow. We know now how deeply affected she was by losing her older “brother from another mother.”

Scootie on our bar, ready for some adoration, preferably involving a lot of petting, October 22, 2016.


Ron and I are grateful for all the love and support we have received not only during Scootie’s last days, but throughout his life. In no particular order, our thanks and deep affection goes out to all of you equally, and if we missed someone, we are very sorry.

Kahle A-B., for being a Keeper of All Things Scootness, for being the daughter we never had, and because we will never forget you saying that when you met Scootie, you wanted to “hold him and squeeze him ’til he pops.” The best. We felt the same way: Scootie was Just. Too. Precious. We all (including Mahrs!) wanted him to explode and be one with us, be all around us and in us, and perhaps now he is. His everythingness was truly amazing. That you saw Scootie just days before he passed meant the world-of-our-best-dreams to us all. Your epic love continues to nurture, bolster, and cast light and love on us. Crooookieees, forever.

Sandy M., for being present even when you’re not physically close enough to schedule last-minute lunches, let’s-drink-bubbles-dates, and extreme crying jags that probably require strong netting and intermittent hugs. Quote from Sharine: “If I hadn’t called Sandra after my first meltdown following Scootie’s death, and she hadn’t taken my call, I might be wandering through the Mojave Desert right now, wondering why drinking my tears isn’t quenching my thirst, and why that big cactus is sidling up to me for a look-see.” No, I’m not going to re-make “Under the Sea” with a Scooter-based desert theme. But, nice try. You always know how to keep my creative juices flowing, even in emotional rollercoaster times.

Maria K., for being the sweet friend who lost your furry family member who was much, much larger than Scootie, but you also know that size, in this instance, does not matter. As one of his best caretakers and not-so-secret admirers, we appreciate your up-close and distant love for your little “Scootie-Bear.” Your consistent presence in Scootie’s last half of life and in his final days meant multiple universes to us all. After his death, everything you shared — your own experiences and personal wisdom — was a big, warm, fuzzy blanket, just when we lost the little black one we already had. The card you sent came at just the right time, reminding us again of Scootie’s far-reaching affect on all who knew him.

Denny H., for being a steadfast brother who was “right there” with us, all the way from Michigan, during the last weeks and days.

Sherrie H., for being the compassionate friend who, still a bit raw from losing your dog Roxy this year, has a big enough heart to listen to me talk — during our lunch date — about Scootie’s passing. Conversations about death during mealtime can only happen with a family member or a really special friend.

Teresa J., for being the sweet little lemon drop that you are, bringing a card and gift to the house on Scootie’s last day. Even though you hadn’t met him until then, I was so moved that you took time out of your busy day off to shop for gifts and make a visit.

Band Mates Phil, Wave, Okie, and Bam, for being the cool friends you all are and suffering through rehearsal, the day after Scootie passed, during which I was rather despondent and could hardly smile. Even “performing” was so difficult that I when I made eye contact with anyone, it increased my pain. All I could do was try to play and sing. My saving grace was watching and listening to Ron’s stellar guitar work.

Joseph F., for being my favie (former) guitar student, good friend, and perfect pal for Scootie while we traveled this last August. Scootie always felt good with you because of your chill nature. I know he appreciated every moment of petting, playing, brushies, and just your presence while here in our home, whether you were here for lessons, just dropping by for a visit, or taking care of him.

Felicia, for being one more of my favorite people on the planet and for helping Joseph care for Scootie, especially hand-feeding him pumpkin.

Nathan S., for being a spiritually in-tune friend who totally understood my experience in Scootie’s final moments of life. Your phone call came at just the right time, and your gentle nature was comforting during our conversation.

Mahry A-B., for being the precious little animal-lover that you are. Even though Scootie freaked out upon meeting you, it was absolute pleasure to watch you scream joyously when you first saw him, and then cry in abject agony when you realized you couldn’t hold him and squeeze him until he pops. We all feel that way, my little Mahrzipan, we all do.

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Scootie in our dining room, looking wistful as he often did, February 24, 2015.




(All photographs in this post by Ron Hagadone and Sharine Borslien. Please do not reproduce them or use them in any way without our express permission. Requests can be made to Sharine on this blog’s contact page.)