Much Ado About Nothing

Where this was once my forum for writing my story, I've decided to keep that to myself. This is my personal blog now, with lots of horses, veterinary things, random gifs and articles, and things I like.
Depression is such a cruel punishment. There are no fevers, no rashes, no blood tests to send people scurrying in concern. Just the slow erosion of the self, as insidious as any cancer. And, like cancer, it is essentially a solitary experience. A room in hell with only your name on the door.
Unknown (via noirdunuit)

(via nutmeghatron)

If I didn’t love watermelon so much, I would have serious doubts about buying a 10lb monstrosity that MIGHT taste bad. They don’t exactly let you cut them open in the store, or anything.

But I love ‘em. So I do.

owlturdcomix:

We go forward.

(via webuildarobot)

samati:

skeletales:

This is unexpectedly not about make-up haha

reblogged before it was even finished.

(via passivelyhere)

For the past few days I’ve had some pretty consistent migraines. They usually converge behind my left eye to the point that I want to scoop my eye out of the socket just to get some relief. Doing some searches, it doesn’t sound like a cluster headache (not short-acting, not so severe that I’m pacing) or a trigeminal autonomic cephalalgia in general, or even a trigeminal neuralgia. The most likely is a cervicogenic headache (history of severe neck pain unknown origin, recent vertebra displacement according to a chiropractor, overall back pain), but from what I read those don’t occur behind the eye, just the brows—and this is DEFINITELY behind my eye. I’ve had these headaches for a long time, but never multiple days in a row. Usually accompanied by photophobia and nausea, exhaustion, emotional instability. My concern that the trigeminal nerve is involved is because I ALSO recently had to go to a dental specialist for severe jaw pain that ended up being mostly soft tissue, and blamed on me clenching my jaw

Hazardous that I have enough medical knowledge to read into these things, but I’m trained in four-legged creatures, not two. I’m trying not to self-diagnose but I know that if I don’t have the right questions to ask then they may just tell me to take ibuprofen and go. That doesn’t always help, and I want to know what is going on.

beksboys:

IT SUDDENLY GOT REALLY DARK IN HERE LIKE as if someone stood in front of our brightest lamp and it freaked me out so bad cause i thought “GHOSTS??? DEMONS?????” and i turned around and all i saw was

image

image

ishouldbewhat You could not own cats. They would make you spasm far too often. Case in point.

(via rendigo)

Books say: She did this because. Life says: She did this. Books are where things are explained to you; life is where things aren’t. I’m not surprised some people prefer books. Books make sense of life. The only problem is that the lives they make sense of are other people’s lives, never your own.
Julian Barnes, Flaubert’s Parrot (via quotethat)

(via nutmeghatron)

foxinu:

nsfwjynx:

the-pink-mist:

There was a split second there where his like, “wait, what? bro what are you doing?” 

On more serious note, PTSD dogs for veterans are so fucking therapeutic. They’re like the one person you can spill your guts to and never worry about ever being judged or have that secret divulged. There are times when I definitely prefer the company of a dog over a human. 

Therapy animals save lives.

These dogs are even still so much more amazing. They check rooms before their handler enters, so they can clear it to help the person feel safe. Like in the gif, they are there when panic attacks or nightmares occur, to be something for the person to help ground themselves on, or yes just to turn on the lights. Even more amazing, many people are able to reduce their medication when they have a PTSD service dog there to help them. These dogs are useful for not just veterans, but also victims of abuse, accident trauma, natural disasters, and others. Their training allows them to be useful in situations where medical assistance is needed, as well. Some PTSD dogs are trained to recognize repetitive behaviours in handlers, and signal the handler to break the repetition and stopping the behaviour and possibly injury. 

Service dogs in general are just awesome. Remember to respect any that you see out in public. They are not there for you to walk up to and play with, even the puppies!

(via nutmeghatron)

DYAC.
The next message was the corrected “**Lmaoooo”

Elbows propped on the bar, Miranda watched Verity stride past the counter for the fifth time. This was more entertaining than cleaning out the glasses from the last set of diners. Not quite so entertaining as watching Verity and Eric argue just a little bit earlier, sniping back and forth like aggravated puppies, but it would do. She wasn’t going to go watch Eric angrily scraping at the grill—he was still liable to lash out.

“Why can’t he just let it go, Miranda?”

“Let go of what, darlin’?” She raised a brow, then reached for a glass so she could pretend to clean.

Verity stopped, rocking her weight onto one hip. She smirked at the faux-effort, then fell to dour irritation again as she dropped heavily onto the stool across from Miranda. “I didn’t make it home for my mother’s funeral. I know that was… I know it was really shitty.” She swallowed, hard. “That doesn’t mean I’m a bad person.”

Swirling the hand towel inside the glass made it easy to not watch her face. Miranda gave her that small favor; it was hard admitting to a true guilt like that. “You’d have made it if you could. We all know that.”

“We all know that. We all know that? Miranda, he treats me like I’m something ugly he stepped in on the street.” Verity jerked her hand towards the back of the diner, where the grating sound of metal on metal was easy to hear. “Ever since I got back. I haven’t made a peep about leaving again, and I’m not going to. But no, he keeps implying I’m untrustworthy. That I’m gonna hare off into the Nevernever and be gone for good.”

“That’s silly. They’d never let you in there.”

“Mir.” Verity shoved at the redhead’s arm with her elbow, offsetting her grip and nearly making her drop the glass. “Come on.”

“Okay.” Glass and cloth set aside, Miranda leveled a steady look on the girl she’d watch dive off the top of the falls when she was fourteen. “Verity Hale, you’ve been gone a damned long time—an’ you let me finish before you babble about it.” Verity’s mouth closed with a click, and she nodded. Damn right she’d shush. “A lotta things happened since you’ve been gone, y’know. You show up outta nowhere an’ want to belong again? Earn it.”

“Earn it how? Groveling?” It wasn’t in her. Verity had never groveled, broken pride or no. That was why she was back here instead of begging for work.

“Nooooo,” Miranda sighed. The Southern drawl made her sound more exasperated than she was. “You treat him like he is—th’man that stepped in when you were gone. You be polite an’ you be grateful an’ you respect the sacrifices he made.”

“He doesn’t respect me—“

“Do I really have t’be cliché an’ point out the vinegar an’ honey line?” Mouth pulled to one side, Miranda straightened. “Who really wronged who in all this? Take a couple licks to your pride. It’ll blow over.”

Verity closed her eyes, then let her head drop forward so her hair shielded her face. There was no way to win at this, apparently.

“Verity, honey.” The voice came close to her ear. “He’s not doin’ right either. I know that. But he’s a hell of a lot more stubborn than you.”

Eyes open again, Verity stared at the countertop. She sincerely doubted that.