I wanted to post something cheerful for Susie's blog-hop, especially since I'm trying to attract people to my Samhuinn Kindle Countdown (28-31 October, Barefoot on the Couch only); but sometimes life decides that cheerfulness is overrated.
Like when your last (biological) grandparent passes on and you weren't really expecting it.
So I'm dedicating this to my grandparents—all my grandparents—and I'll just write what comes.
Arthur Joseph Martin ~ 18 February 1918 – 24 May 1998
What do you say about a gentleman you never really knew? Despite being precocious, I still feel like I didn't start having "real" conversations1 until eleven or twelve—at which point Pop-Pop was already in the throes of vascular dementia.
I know he read Dean Koontz (he always kept his book of the moment behind his spot on the couch in the trailer where my grandparents summered), and I know Dean is more thriller-ish than Stephen King, but I always tell people that I'm sure he would've loved discussing Stephen's books with me—or any books at all. Nevermind that I haven't read anything other than "Uncle Stevie's" tweets for a long time. Gasp!
That is, if I could've engaged him in conversation at all—Pop-Pop was a notoriously quiet person.
Art passed in Lakeland, Florida due to complications from a stroke. He was 80.
1Conversations of a substantial nature that an adult wouldn't mind listening to and/or participating in. I suppose having an idea of when I crossed that line tells you exactly how precocious I was!
Anita Theresa Rademacher ~ 23 February 1920 – 17 April 2004
Of course, just because you're eighteen doesn't mean you can have a conversation any easier.
For some reason, Grandma Martin and I never really warmed up to each other. Maybe she thought I was too much like my mom. I know I never felt she was very warm and fuzzy, which didn't help anything. But maybe she was just one of those people who likes little kids and doesn't want anything to do with them once they can think for themselves. (That would explain why she would dandle me on her knee and sing me a German song when I was a little, but seemed to grow cooler as I got older.)
I don't know why I was hoping she'd live long enough to see me graduate high school…wishing for one last shot at approval, maybe? Except when you're dying, you're probably not thinking of your youngest granddaughter finishing grade school, so I'm not sure it matters.
Despite not being very close, Grandma did personally hand me my inheritance before she went into hospice: a small pewter frog that I'd played with when I was little. (She loved gardening, wrens, hummingbirds, angels and frogs.) You bet your sweet syrup I still have it fourteen years later! It's my freaking frog and I don't plan on parting with it any time soon!
Anita passed from complications due to what was suspected to be pancreatic cancer.
Though far from the final visitor to her hospice room, I was the last one she spoke to.
She was 84.
Pat & Cleo's 50th Anniversary Hoedown, Summer 2004
From front right: Pat Prescott , Cleo Prescott , Mari Martin , Dayanara Ryelle , Mike Prescott 
Yes, my grandma was two months pregnant when she walked down the aisle!
Cleo Frederick Prescott ~ 20 November 1925 – 23 January 2011
Conversely, how do you mash 25-32 years of memories into one little blog space?
Maybe I should start with this one. I'm going to guess I was pretty young, given my size. Probably not asleep, but simply enjoying the Lake Michigan breeze as we sailed. Location? One of the decks of SS Badger, also known as the Lake Michigan Carferry. (Still running on coal as I write this, after getting an exemption from the EPA!)
Teaching me how to ride a bike. Supervising me as I drove back and forth to my (unwilling) position with him and Grandma as an assistant in their ceramic shop. Building campfires for supper and general relaxing during each camping trip. Big Christmas breakfasts (and regular ones that were none too small!) in which he tried to make me a pancake man. Singing me folk songs like "I Went to the Animal Fair".
Like Pop-Pop, Grandpa suffered from vascular alzheimer's, so his personality died in 2009, even as his body held on for another two years. But that didn't make it any easier to bear, because I loved him so much.
I couldn't tell this story at his memorial service because I knew I'd be too wrecked. But my mom was able to hold herself together long enough to tell it—which I appreciated, as it was Grandpa's favorite. (He loved it so much that he kept repeating it even in the throes of dementia!)
Like many grandpas, mine went off to serve in World War II, ending up in Japan hauling water (for the Air Force, I believe). He happened to be taking a break one day when he heard an officer say, "Man, what I wouldn't give for a pot of potato soup!"
"I can make potato soup, Sir!" Grandpa said bravely. (I think he was brave, anyway…I couldn't imagine getting up the courage to do that!)
Well, that must have been one badass pot of soup, because Cleo Prescott spent the rest of the war as a mess sergeant in the Army. He may have never seen the front lines; but if you ask me, feeding dozens of hungry troops is a battle all its own.
As is often the case with vascular alzheimer's, Cleo succumbed to multiple successive strokes on January 23, 2011. He was 85.
Patricia Ann Lynd ~ 24 February 1933 – 24 September 2018
My grandmother was none too gentle in my younger years, having retained some of the famous "redhead temper" into her fifties and partway into her sixties. Still, if asked to choose a favorite grandma back then, she would've won.
As we got older, we became better friends, and I learned that I could confide in her without the judgement and criticism I'd often received from my mother.1 She returned the favor, admitting that she'd been heartbroken and quite depressed for the first few years after my grandpa's death, but unwilling to tell my mother and uncle for fear they wouldn't sympathize and completely dismiss her grief.
Unfortunately, the last few months were rough. She'd finally agreed to go off steroids after seven years, but sacrificed much of the movement in her hands and other extremities in the process. Her doctors had also cut back on her Percocet (due to the opioid epidemic, she said), leaving her in a great deal of pain. Worse, a few weeks ago, they found fluid around her heart—a sure sign that she was already struggling with the end.
Grandma loved her ceramics and had more artistic certifications than I've ever seen in any field. She was a big fan of camping (and hiking while she was still able) and enjoyed going to Algonac to see the ships moving cargo up and down the Saint Clair River. Most of all, she loved lighthouses—collecting them, painting them and reading about them as much as she could.
Pat died Monday, presumably from complications of arterial fibrillation and general heart failure. She was 85.
1 I still wouldn't be talking to her if it wasn't for my grandmother's death, as conversation frequently drifted to claims that my grandmother "wasn't all there" and had "problems with the truth". I can't speak for the latter, but the former is bullshit—nobody who is losing their mind should be able to converse at length about playing basketball and clarinet as my grandmother did in the last six months! Eighty-five and she could still tell me who played what position and the names of the girls that were first and second chair to her third.
My beloved lighthouse has gone out…
You know that moment when you think back and say, "ugh, I should've left right then"? I had one of those today. I can't say I'm upset by the final outcome, but I'm not too thrilled, either.
The short version of what's been happening with my cat situation:
- Lauren started scooting in April and they never could figure out what the problem was, so—as much as it tore me up to do so—I surrendered her. More details on her in a minute.
- I picked out a black kitten that same day who was sweeter than anything, but I had to return her for a behavioral problem. (I'll get to her in the next part as well.)
- Someone on reddit wanted to get rid of their adult cat, so I took her in without having met her. Huge mistake. She was so shy that she hid in the basement all day, never wanted to be touched (although she purred like crazy if you managed to corner her for some attention) and was intimidating my dad's cat (a different one—he's had problems, too) so badly that Jessie didn't want to go to the basement to use the bathroom. (I actually had to spring a sort of trap on her when we finally found someone to rehome her!)
- I've been looking for a different cat for the last three weeks, which led to today's drama.
I finally, mercifully, settled on a kitten.
I was a little concerned because she tried to hide as soon as I met her, but when I put her on my lap and offered to let her tuck her head under my arm, she seemed to like that. (Plus, it may have just been that she was scared of the dogs barking, as I seem to remember Ani tucking her head under my arm once at the vet after she'd had something uncomfortable done.) So I decided to give her a shot, knowing that I could always return her if it didn't work out. I said goodbye to her for the moment and sat down with one of the adoption staff—that's when the catnip hit the fan.
I didn't want to go a long patch without a photo, so here's a zonked out cat.
(By the way, I have no idea what this girl's name was—they don't wear tags for whatever reason—so I'll call her Nicole. And remember, this isn't verbatim.)
"You don't have a credit," Nicole announced. "We decided that what happened was normal kitten behavior and your dad wasn't offered an exchange or credit."
Sidebar: I realized as I wrote those words that they've effectively stolen $75 from me! (I had to stop working on this for a few minutes while I emailed my credit union about it.) They might be a charitable organization, but when the adoption fee is required, it's not a donation. (Even when I give donations, I don't go that high unless I'm getting something out of it, like at a silent auction.) I paid that fee with the assumption that I'd get something in return. No animal and no refund means theft on their part!
"If it's normal behavior, why was she adopted twice more before it finally stuck?"
Nicole proceeded to get around that question by looking up my dad and I in the system and accuse us of being bad pet parents. (Her words were something like, "We're getting concerned you can't take care of animals like you should." Maybe…I kind of interrupted when I started sobbing.)
Okay, stop the beat train right fucking there!
My dad has had cats for forty-two years. Until this seventeen-month streak of bad luck (which seems to be over, thankfully), the only way he got rid of cats was by burying them in the backyard. (I don't think I need to get more explicit than that.) A year and a half of sick cats makes him a bad pet parent?
I've had (or been around) cats my entire life. Lauren was my everything for a decade, until I could no afford to pay for an illness no one could figure out. Stopping at $400 over four months (and returning a couple due to bad behavior) makes me a bad pet parent? News to me!
I should've walked out when Nicole said there was no adoption credit. I had my chair pushed back, purse in hand—everything. But she was typing away on her computer, so my naivete said, "Maybe she's trying to figure something out for me." And I stayed.
Ultimately, I started sobbing and saying it wasn't our fault our cats got sick. I'm sure my voice was getting louder (I was upset…what do you expect?) when I said, "Do you really think I wanted to surrender my best friend of a decade? Do you think we actually wanted to surrender any of them?"
I don't remember where it all went, but when I finally left, I said, "I can't believe you! What a bitch! I'm never adopting here again!"
That was when I heard a voice behind me say, "We'd appreciate it if you never came back."
Wait. Hold on another fucking second. Did you just ban me for calling one of your staffers a bitch?
No, sorry. That calls for a "please watch your language", not banning me.
I suppose their reasoning behind banning me was that I was "causing a scene".
Guess what? I have depression and anxiety/panic disorder. Crying is what I do! Yes, I was wrong in using profanity; but wouldn't you get upset if you were just told that a few sick cats over seventy-four years of combined animal love makes you a bad pet parent? (They're actually lucky I wasn't yelling at them, but I've been told I have such a loud voice that people think I'm yelling when I'm not. Believe me, you'd know if I'm yelling—my voice not only gets a little higher, but I often use the big "what the hell do you expect me to do?!" hand gestures.)
(continued on page two)
My mother has a problem. For some unearthly reason, when you put her and a tent together, it always rains.
Not one of her pictures…this was just a pretty search result.
Once or twice? A coincidence. (If you believe in coincidences.) But multiple times with multiple
victims people? It starts to become clear that Someone Out There doesn’t like her.
(Apologies for the bad picture. I lightened it a little, but don’t know why the person taking it didn’t tell everyone to take their hats off. L-R: my mom’s coworker [whose name I can’t remember], her son, me, Mom and Wayne [Mom’s boyfriend from 2004-8]) (I need a name, so I’ll call the coworker Rachel and her son Ben. [Anne and Chris also comes to mind, but, as I said…])
Our first trip camping together was to South Manitou Island in 2006. Since Wayne was retired, he’d come by and grab me and my bag and take me back to his place about an hour before Mom would get off work, so that I could help finish packing and we’d be ready to load my mother’s car when she got there. Since this was twelve years ago, my memory is a little fuzzy, so I don’t know if my body threw much of a fit1, but it was an otherwise lovely ride up to Traverse City on a summer Friday evening. We overnighted there and drove the remaining half hour to Leland, where we had breakfast (or rather, I attempted it2) and met up with Rachel and Ben at the dock to board the ferry for our weekend of camping.
That night, it rained.
This wasn’t your average summer shower—it rained so hard, Wayne’s tent flooded3, thunder shook the island, and the wind gusted through the trees so hard that…well, it didn’t sound like a tornado was coming, but it sure sounded eerie!
Fortunately, it was just Saturday night, so—outside of the hardcover book that was ruined (shouldn’t have brought it with me) and not having a shower between Saturday morning and Monday night—it was okay.
Well, I thought it was just going to be Saturday.
(Big Sable Point lighthouse, Ludington. I love Ludington so much that I sighed happily when I saw that picture.)
Fast forward to 2007. This year’s destination, the new Jack Pine hike-in campground at Ludington State Park (about two hours south of Traverse). When I was little, it had been a site for large groups, but they’d recently converted it to ten tent-only lots and my mom—being an avid backpacker by then—was eager to try it. Other than a slightly rainy setup and a damp first morning; this, too was a good trip. (Even more so for me, as I was able to persuade my mom to walk to the showers in the main campground with me at least once and didn’t have to be dirty all weekend.)
Having spent my childhood with grandparents that would call every time a major storm rolled in (to check on us and to remind us to go to the basement if there was a risk of tornado), I was antsy when my mom arrived because a warning had been issued and Wayne hadn’t showed me where the door was to his basement. My mom must have pointed it out shortly after her arrival, because not ten minutes later, I decided I didn’t like the sound of the wind and was slipping on my flipflops. Apparently, she felt the same way, because she was hot on my heels!
When the wind cleared, we went outdoors to find corn leaves, foam, leaves and other debris in the yard—even someone’s report card!
We debated whether we should still go to Ludington—and we did in the end, much to my discomfort—but it was scary coming back and seeing the devastation, realizing we’d been a mere three miles away from the tornado. (My dad lives six miles away from where the tornado touched down, so I’m sure I was anxious about leaving him behind, too.)
(The Viking Arms in Ludington, where my mom and I stayed during our annual Labor Day Weekend trips. I thought they were cool back in the day because they had a big library of videos that you could rent for a buck each. Wonder if they switched to DVDs or just got rid of the whole concept with the advent of streaming on Netflix?)
You think I would’ve cottoned on to my mother’s issue by August 2010, but it still hadn’t occurred to me that something might be wrong. Between my anxiety acting up (which we didn’t yet know I had) and no Wayne to mediate between us (he’d dumped my mom in 2008), it was the worst camping trip I’d ever been on. (Yes, even worse than that final one with my grandparents where my preteen bitchiness4 put an end to everything.)
It wasn’t a bad trip in the daytime…we went hiking at one point, went to the beach (where I played so hard with some kids that I could barely stand up for exhaustion afterwards), ate at House of Flavors at least once…but the rain just had to come back!
I don’t know if it’s walking to the bathroom in the rain.
I don’t know if it’s because rain makes the tent stuffy.
I don’t know if tents trigger claustrophobic feelings.
All I know is that I cried when the storm came in and did not want to be in the tent!
Watching this come in was fun…sitting in a tent while this comes in? Nightmare!
Even when it wasn’t raining, I had a hard time sleeping—probably because of cars driving around at all hours5 of the night! One of us had Advil PM in our bags (maybe it was both of us), but it turns out that diphenhydramine (the sleep ingredient in APM and other OTC pills) makes me nauseated above a certain point, which made the situation even worse. By Sunday, Mom was upset with me and I was unhappy in general, so we went home a day early. She must have calmed down after we were on the road for a while, though, because we played a few word games, and that what how I found out uglifruit existed!
Would I be happier now that I have klonopin on my side? Probably not…I can still see myself longing for my childhood trips in a travel trailer!
Next Page: Sorry, Mom—it’s not me, it’s you!
1If you’re not familiar with the nature of my health problems, feel free to ask.
2I haven’t been able to eat a proper breakfast since I was a junior in high school. As a senior, I imagine it was anxiety…and in the years after, more anxiety, given that I would often be up for breakfast only because I had a job interview.
3They brought a single for me, but it was so small that even with the screen uncovered, it gave me a bit of claustrophobia. (Like those two were going to Do It on the hard ground, anyway!)
4Okay, maybe one part bitchiness and one part “my parents are divorcing and even though they’re miserable together, it still hurts!” (I don’t remember if we stopped going when I was eleven or twelve, though.)
5When I was young, each campground had gates that they’d close at the end of visiting hours; but I have no way of knowing if they stopped after determining it was a safety violation, or if it was just the DNR patrolling hourly.
Everyone rants about “irregardless”, “to/too”, “your/you’re”, “its/it’s”, and “there/their/there”, but what really needs to be happening is bitching about the new non-word “Latinx”. I acknowledge that grammar evolves and changes over time; but unlike English, Spanish and Portuguese have already provided for trans and neutral folk simply by having gendered language. We’re going to focus on Spanish here, though, as I know squat-all about Portuguese1 and there are too many other languages the rest of the way down the Latino food chain.
Try not to have too much fun on your way down.
How the hell are you supposed to pronounce that, anyway? “La-tinks”? “La-tinsh”2? I’m not even sure, because from what I’ve seen, X shows up primarily in Mexican and Central American Spanish and Catalan. Not that it matters whether it shows up in American Spanish, because LATINX IS NOT A WORD!
A group of males is “Latinos”. A group of females is “Latinas”. A mixed-gendered group is also “Latinos”, because a mixed-gendered group of anything always carries the masculine ending.
What if I’m trans?
Estoy pensando en cambiar mi género. | Estoy trabajando en cambiar mi género.
“I’m thinking of changing my gender” or “I’m working on changing my gender”.
How about gender neutral?
Soy neutral en género. | Prefiero no elegir un género.
“I’m gender neutral” or “I prefer not to pick a gender”.
What about being bigender/genderfluid?
“Prefiero no elegir un género” still works, or you could go with, “Mi género cambia con mi estado de ánimo”. (“My gender changes with my mood.”)
Stop. Just stop. Now you’re just trying to piss me off.
I’m done trying to correct people on this one—it’s just too damn tiring and too easy to hit the block button. If you’re going to continue to purposefully remain ignorant, that hole is waiting.
1Yes, I’ve tried Duolingo. Last I knew, the reader for Portuguese had an incredible case of word vomit. x_x (Which is a shame, because I’m shortly to get a Brazilian cousin-in-law.)
2X has an sh sound in Catalan, which is where the suggestion of “La-tinsh” comes from.
Sorry this lacks my usual venom—my heart just wasn’t in it this time.
I've never read Seanan McGuire's work (until this thread, anyway), but this tweet essay is fantastic, so I thought I'd take advantage of my sudden, inexplicable popularity to share this with the wider world.
I don't know where the paragraph breaks would be, so I'm breaking it off by tweet, except for where a sentence runs across two.
All right, y'all: we're going to take a moment to talk about my last retweet. Specifically Sarah saying "Every time I talk about writing fanfiction, I get hatemail." I am not tagging her in because I don't want to dogpile her mentions.
Buckle in. It's going to be long one.
I started writing fiction, so far as anyone can tell based on excavation of my old papers (Mom kept everything), around the age of six. In these stories, I went off to Ponyland to play with the Ponies and hang out with Megan. Everyone loved me, naturally. I got to ride unicorns.
Most of the kids I knew were making up the same stories; I was precocious only in that I was already writing them down. The boy three houses over had a very close relationship with the Care Bears. His sister was the best mechanic the Transformers had ever known.
Was most of it self-insert wish-fulfillment? Well, yeah. FUCK, YEAH. We were kids. We were learning how to make up stories, and the best stories were the ones that had a place for us in their centers.
As we got older, most of the boys I knew stopped telling–or at least stopped sharing–those stories. They had discovered that the majority of media centered boys exactly like them, which meant they could move from self-insertion to projection without a hiccup.
(Projection is also an important step in learning how to make believe. If you can't BE the main character, you can let them be your avatar, carrying your essence into the story. Here's the thing, though: it takes time to learn to "ride" avatars that you can't recognize.)
Everyone who grows up on a diet of Western media learns, on some level, to accept The Default as their avatar, because we historically haven't had much choice. Want to be the hero, instead of the love interest, the scrappy sidekick, or the villain? Embrace The Default.
Bit by bit, the number of girls* who would admit to making up their own stories also dropped off. The rest of us, well. We learned that "I had an adventure…" made people laugh at you. We started writing avatars. (*Parts of this thread are very binary, because they are based on my childhood experiences, and I grew up, as many of us did, in a very gender binary world. I am fascinated to see how these experiences with story change as we move into a more fluid and accepting world.)
Only writing avatars also got us laughed at, when people found out about it, got us accused of Mary Sue wish-fulfillment bullshit. We stopped making up original female characters. Many of us stopped making up characters at all.
If we used only existing characters as our avatars, we didn't get laughed at as much. If we used only existing MALE characters–characters we had all been trained to view as The Default, capable of anything, not just of being The Girl–well.
Suddenly we could write ANYTHING WE WANTED. Suddenly we were GODS OF THE FICTIONAL WORLD, and we could finally start telling the stories the shows and books didn't want to give us.
I honestly think that the reason so many fanfic writers are women/girls is a toxic combination of social stigma ("ew, fanfic is a GIRLY thing, ew, it's all PORN, and most of it is GAY PORN") and seeking a way to empathize with The Default.
So you have generations–literal, multiple GENERATIONS–of female authors growing up steeped in fanfic. Making our own stories from high school on, if not before. Trying to find our way to a schema of story that actually fits us.
(You also have generations of queer authors, trans authors, and gender-nonconforming authors, all going on their own journeys. My sexuality definitely influenced my attraction to fanfic, because finally, I wasn't being judged for it.)
This means that you have, again, GENERATIONS of female authors who have gone through the most rigorous writing school in existence, going pro and starting to publish.
Yes: THE most rigorous. FIGHT ME. Fanfic taught me pacing. Taught me dialog. Taught me scene, and structure, and what to do when a deadline attacks. Fanfic taught me to take critique, to be edited, to collaborate, to write to spec. FANFIC MADE ME.
An MFA takes three years. My path from fanfic newbie to published author took me more than a decade.
It's not a structured school. There aren't classes, or finals; you don't get a degree. How fast you learn is tied to how fast you listen, and you can stop whenever you find the place that makes you happy. "Going pro" is not the brass ring for every fanfic author.
A [considerable] number of us started writing fanfic because we wanted to live the stories that we loved, and then discovered that we loved telling stories. We wanted to do it always and forever and maybe…maybe we wanted to tell OUR OWN STORIES.
Maybe we wanted to CHANGE THE DEFAULT.
Can you imagine?
Graduates of a school that doesn't cost money, with a "student body" made of mostly women, CHANGING THE DEFAULT.
Because here's where I'm going to pivot a little, and tell you a filthy, filthy secret: men write fanfic too. They just call it "homage," or "public domain," or "licensed work," and get on with their bad selves.
FUZZY NATION? Fanfic.
Every X-Men comic written since Claremont stopped? Fanfic.
Your beloved HAMILTON? Real-person fanfic. Songfic, even.
When men write fanfic, there is a tendency for the media to report on it as "transformative" and "transgressive" and "a new take on a classic story."
When women do it, the same media goes "hee hee hee she wrote about dicks."
Am I blaming the men who tell the stories? Fuck, no. But when the conversation is always framed as "HE makes LITERATURE, SHE writes TRASH," that is the schema people seize upon. That is the narrative we live.
The Default, now, is that a man who writes fanfic is uplifting and transforming, showing us the pearl within the oyster, whereas all the woman wants to show us is the "pearl" in the "oyster," in the Victorian sense.
AND THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THE VICTORIAN SENSE. But this is just an updated version of the "men write erotica, women write pornography" conversation that's been going on since I was a wee small Seanan sneaking my stepdad's Playboys.
Women who admit they wrote (or still write) fanfic get shit upon, over and over again, because we keep saying, and allowing the media to say, that fanfic is trash, and that by extension, we who write it are garbage people.
It gets used as a "gotcha." I have experienced it directly, the interviewer who drops their voice, leans in conspiratorially close, and asks if the rumors that I used to write…those stories…are true.
They always look so damn shocked when I respond with a cheerful, "Oh, yeah, my agent initially contacted me because she really enjoyed my BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER Faith/Buffy porn!"
[Cue Dayanara rolling her eyes on Seanan's behalf]
I am supposed to be ashamed of my past. I am supposed to repudiate the school where I learned to hold an audience; I am supposed to bury the bodies of all the girls who made me.
Fanfic is a natural human interaction with story. Children do it before they know its name. People who swear they would never do it all the time, retelling fairy tales and Shakespearean dramas and family anecdotes in new lights and new settings. FANFIC WILL NEVER DIE.
We need to acknowledge that fact: we need to accept that fanfic is never going away, and that it would suck a sack of wasps through a funnel if it did, because we need it. We need to center old stories in new ways, to update The Default, and yeah, to see some vampire peen.
So if you know someone who wrinkles their nose at fanfic, or who would tell a former fanfic author that their original fiction is somehow worth less because of their roots, or who is just generally an impacted asshole with legs, remember:
They are wrong.
Fanfic is beautiful.
Writing fanfic teaches you important storytelling skills.
I have a funnel and access to wasps.
Thank you for coming to today's episode of Seanan Gets Mad About Shit.
And thank you for accepting my choice to repost this.
Now I must go…my fingers hurt from the copypasta. 😛