I'm a walking, talking paradox. I'm a Pagan of the Druid's path (Pagan does not automatically mean Wiccan), pale white, dirty blonde, pleasingly plump, bi with a lean towards women more than men, engaged to a gloriously perfect black man in the Army and often find a very strong southern accent slipping into how I speak or write; usually subtle enough for a word here or there. I also have goth/grunge tastes. Kids and animals are are my daily passion, gardening is a real joy, I am determined to one day own and run my own horse ranch, and I'm most comfortable creating things in some manner or another (sewing, writing, drawing, fixing up things like this).

At the same time, I will fuck yo ass up. I don't like people. I don't put up with bull. I've had my fair share of drama and abuse out of this life and then some, don't expect me to be pushed around any more. I quite frankly do not care what you think, how you feel or even rather you live or die. Save the righteous indignation for your beer.

Still, I'm the kind of woman who basically wants to be a house wife. I want to be home with any cubs I may have, caring for my horses and decorating the living room and experimenting with new recipes. That's how I'm wired, and any feminazi that may have a problem with it can go and climb Mt. Everest if they so please, just as long as they realize I choose Not to.

For that matter, I do not believe that war is in any way acceptable. We've become conditioned to accept it, especially with all the games and movies they have now. But think - one of the blank faces, one of those 'extras' in that movie or game, one who's just a uniform, that's a lie. In the game, in the movie, yes, but there's no such thing as 'just a uniform.' There isn't. My mate is in the Army and I am damned proud of him; some are simply bred to fight, to be a warrior, some are created that way, and he's one of those. He wants to do the most he can, lead a full life, and I'm proud of him for that. Hard truth is, though, in someone else's game, in someone else's movie, he's nothing but another uniform. A blank face, an extra, no matter how much he means to me, no matter how much he takes care of his mother, no matter if he's a mechanic or in the infantry.

I am not ok with that idea. It is not acceptable to be ok with that idea, not to me. There's always a story, no matter who it is, no matter how terrible their motives are, there's always a story, there's always a Life there, and simply dismissing that life as worthless is the worst possible crime.

So don't talk to me about political slander, or about fighting a good fight or bringing everyone home. Don't talk to me about a duty to vote or the ideals of a country. I don't give a flying fuck. I want to look at wall colors and watch a horse be born and make my own mulch for the garden. Anyone who's against that, that's your business. Try to mess with my business and you will find out why I used to drink Jack Daniels before I quit. I ain't one of them gals that needs it soft and fruity, and I ain't one to Give soft and fruity, though I will give you a few missin teeth and a broken bone or three, regardless of whatever damage I get in turn. In all honesty that damage won't matter - what with GERD and an ulcer, I've gotten to where I literally don't feel pain most of the time (it is rather interesting to only realize you have heartburn when the acid's backed up so bad you're either puking or coughing it out of your lungs).