Welcome to Pixie’s Kaleidoscope!

This is the post excerpt.

I will say, if you’re coming here and you’re hoping to see anything cohesive, you may want to stumble onward. You’re gonna get a bunch of things here. Sometimes a poem. Sometimes a recipe. Sometimes a rant I can’t do on Facebook because it is way too PMSy even for my own liking.


And if you see ads on here, please know it’s only because I can’t afford a website for right now. This is a work in progress, so know once I can afford a proper website, you won’t have to see ads at all.


Tick Click Tock Clock



arrogance abuse abandonment

tick click tock clock



belligerently boldly bashingly bad

tick click tock clock



Curiosity creates craven cullable cunt

Tick click tock clock



Demonic dastardly defamatory debauchery

Tick click tock clock



Energetically envisioning exciting elements

Tick click tock clock



fretting for future failure

tick click tock clock



guessing genuine goodness gifts

Tick click tock clock

She sat.

She watched the clock tick the seconds and still she sat.

She was worried about so many things, but watched as the seconds hand passed the six, and then the seven and was marching halfway to the eight when she finally blinked.

When was the last time she had blinked?

Her sadness was easily pushed aside, in the wake of a moment of dramatic love professed by an onlooker.

She sat, reciting the poem, wandering through the letters and words and could hear the tick click tock clock and stomping feet and stiletto shoes on the linoleum.

How did people walk in those shoes and not slip? It confused her. She could wear non-slip shoes on a carpet and slip, so the idea someone could wander about, and many so quickly, in super shiny and stiletto heeled shoes was scary for her.

It was more so scarier than someone being confined in an elevator during a brief power outage. These people put their life in their… shoes every step of the day. That takes a level of confidence that she’d never have.

The clock’s second hand was back around to the far left end of the numbers, and she absentmindedly watched without committing the moment to an idea, as she saw the new hour click into place as everything touched the twelve together. She wondered if anyone else had ever watched or heard that particular clock make that little stunted grindy noise when it hit the top of an hour. Perhaps it was only for the one o’clock time that it did that. She didn’t think she’d be there for the two o’clock one, but then again, she didn’t think she would be sitting here at all today, so who knew what was up for her future plans.

A seemingly professional yet curt cordial smile did not meet the eyes of the person who entered the waiting room to tell her she was next for her meeting. A race of panic and excitement wound around her throat. She stood, tentatively, even though her solid wedge flats were well spread on the area rug below her chair. She followed the backside of the body through the doorway arch.

“Thank you for meeting with me today.” She swallowed hard, and closed her eyes for a moment, seeing a friendly face behind her lids. When she opened her mouth and eyes, her tone was calm. “I realise our time is precious, so I’ll get directly to the point. I am delighted that you liked my work, and I am willing to negotiate my royalties. I know you see the value of these words,” she confidently tapped the back of the case she was holding in her left hand.

What’s in My Kaleidoscope?

I’m sitting here, in Ireland, and I am bombarded with a million and five different conflicting thoughts.

Will anyone read this? Will anyone need to? Will anyone like it? Will anyone enjoy the words, or will they sigh, and roll their eyes, and scoff as they see the Oxford commas and the properly laid out paragraphs?

Will they be like the “others” who have wandered through my words before, seeing what they want to, and yet not really gathering the depth or meaning of the words?

I’ve lived in the shadows for so long, compelled to wear this mask or another, so that I fit some fucked up paradigm of what a good individual should be. And yet, the only thing, through this whole 123 words so far that has caught any attention was in this fourth paragraph. One little word that will get into your brain and you will judge from the onset. Am I cool because I “swear”? Am I despotically horrible because I wrote a “bad” word? Am I unsavoury, unsaveable, or even just un-whatever you want to say when you put your Judgey Judgerson cape of judgement on.

Well, to you, Judgey Judgerson, I say not so snarkily, too bad. Too bad you see the word fuck and you judge. Because there is so much more to me than just a word.

And here is sit, now transfixed in a state of “should I remove this one pathetic word and superglue that fucking Stepford Wife mask back on my face that I was finally able to pry off officially two days ago, even though I removed it June 27th of this year, when I said “take care” to the last arrogantly pathetic human who I will allow myself to be controlled by.

This site isn’t for anyone but me. If someone comes across this, so much the better. But this is my healing. This is my way to get things out that aren’t going to fit on Geeks or SAMC or anywhere else.

It’s where I can discuss the details of my therapy sessions, and start to try to come to terms with my health and future.

Where I can release and vent and hope and gnash my teeth, through virtual means, to try to make some sense of my brain. Good fucking luck.

So for now, I’m gonna go back to my Vampire Diaries mindlessness, petting Harvey-the-wonder-puppy (9yr old Jack Russell terrier that is currently laying about 6″ away from my right elbow), and hope I can ignore reality a little longer. Because it’s not always easy. For me, it rarely is. I just want to sleep.

Welcome to the mecurial mind of the depressed pixie, who is stumbling sideways, always hoping for a better tomorrow.