swarbles.

a mostly goodhearted thirty year old lady who lives in a land where it's winter half the year. starlings nest in the soffit along the side of my house and mourning doves roost under the roof above of my door stoop. i fall in love all the time.

sometimes i sing.
sometimes i make things.

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nothing quite like starting your week by slicing your thumb open on a piece of steel, thinking “oh, that’s not that bad,” but then it starts gushing blood and you start swearing and crying and run across the shop to the bathroom and the water against the porcelain is an unfortunately vibrant red and you start shaking and your father and brother follow suit and everyone is yelling “DON’T LOOK AT IT DON’T LOOK DON’T LOOK” and you’re crying at the table saw while being bandaged up, and then once that’s done, you see the trail of blood drops you left and have to sit down for ten minutes because everything is gross.  and then a half hour later, you have bled through the two layers of bandaids.

so, it can only get better from here, right????

edit: wrong.  it can always get worse, and almost always does get worse.