About Me–page not found


I have written and published eleventy “About Me” pages, only to go back and hit the trash a day later because each one plagued me at night; I’d wake up at bastard o’clock in the morning wondering, Am I really a cunt? All of my blasted attempts to write up a proper biography always seem to come out reading fucking cunty.

giphy-downsized (3)

I’ve taken the Funny Lady biography for a spin or twelve. Oh, look at me! I’m a proper Kristen Wiig. More like Kristen Stewart, bitch—which leads to the I’m Awkward and Don’t Know If Anyone Really Likes Me biography. I’ve also written up the Understated Writer biography. I’m a regular Hemmingway over here. That’s a goddamned lie. My favorite was the A&E biography. Kindra was born into one of the most fuckest-uppest families in Michigan, but she never let her parents’ inability to get their shit together drag her down.


There are a few “About Me” pages on WordPress I’ve read that are poignant, genuine, and absolutely interesting. Perhaps I could employ one of these beautiful people to write my biography for me. Or visit the elementary school and get a kindergartner to do it. I actually like the latter idea better. My biography would read something like:

My name is Kindra. I wrote a book, and now I’m writing another one. I like to write for my blog on WordPress. I like my friends on WordPress. My favorite color is green. But not neon green. I don’t like neon colors. I have Fibromyalgia. Fibromyalgia sucks donkey dick. Mean people suck donkey dicks, too. I like sticking up for people who are being hurt. I make the best homemade pizza in the galaxy. I love my husband. I love my daughter. I love my cat, Melvin. I love my dad, and my mom, and my sister. My sister is having a baby girl later this month. I love babies. I visited England once, and I want to visit again. I also want to go to Scotland and see my kindred spirit, Allane. My dream car is a 1970 AMC Javelin, because unicorns aren’t real, and unicorns are not cars.

The end.


Melvin Cornelius, You’ll Be the Death of Me


Melvin Cornelius likes when I sing to him. Today, Jim chuckled, and shook his head when I sang You Are So Beautiful to my baby boy.

I said, “You’re lucky I don’t put Melvie in clothes, put him to bed in a crib, and sit him in a highchair at meal times.”

To which Jim replied, “I’m lucky??? You’re lucky. Because I’d have to put you in a home, where you’d be hand fed by nurses. In a highchair. And straitjacket.”

I don’t know where my husband comes up with these ridiculous scenarios.

Once, I said to Nicole (when she still lived at home with us), “Wouldn’t it be creepy as fuck if one day we were minding our own business, and Melvin walked into the room on his hind legs and starting talking to us? I’ll bet he walks around in the middle of the night like a person, while we’re all asleep. He probably walks upright into your bedroom, hops up onto your bed to sleep with you, and you don’t even know it.”

The idea frightened her for some reason. She slept with her bedroom door closed for weeks. Melvin would scratch at her door, and I’d hear, “No, Melvin! Go away!”

There’s nothing diabolical about Melvin. Look at that face!


He’s my special guy, yes he is. 

I had a nightmare recently. It was a zombie apocalypse, and I was trying to save Melvie from being caught and eaten. For some reason, Dream Kindra thought that hiding him in a cupboard was the best solution. He kept running away! And I kept putting him back in that goddamned cupboard. Seriously, I need to get my shit together. I need a solid plan. Without one, I’ll be the first to go, and it will be because of my cat. Not even (my secret boyfriend) Norman Reedus would be able to save me and Melvin.

I’m a lost fucking cause, I swear.






Feeling Some Type of Way


Nicole and I are on our way to see Fleetwood Mac in this photo, taken in 2015.

At 3:33 pm, on the third day of October, it is 82 degrees where I live in Michigan. The house is cool inside, too cool, so I’ve opened a window for balance–just one. The sun is a golden god today, and the trees are waving happy branches in the breeze–lots of them have managed to hold onto their spring green color. From where I’m sat at my desk in the living room, looking into the backyard, I might easily be fooled into thinking it was June.

I am peaceful this afternoon, listening to the clacking of keys as my fingers deliver my thoughts. Melvin is asleep in the window just inches away from me, and he keeps making these fat kitty errrmm sounds that melt my heart. I want to pick him up and rock him like the baby he is, but the poor guy hasn’t been feeling well, so it’s best I let him be; the sweet thing, I wonder what he dreams about, all curled up and cozy.

I’m going to prepare a chicken stew with dumplings tonight for dinner. I feel good enough to cook, so I want something special. I only wish Nicole still lived at home so I could feed her, too. Oh, my girl. I miss the smell of her shampoo permeating after her nightly shower. I miss going to bed at night, and seeing the soft light of her bedroom reaching just beyond the edge of the closed door. I miss waking up to the sound of her tea kettle. She and Isaiah have just moved into their first house, about ten miles out of the village. I still see Nicole several times a week, and we text, or speak on the phone every day.

I am peaceful this afternoon, but I really feel like I need a hug.






Treasure Chest Award (created by Braeden Michaels)

Braeden created a new award to show appreciation for the writers of WordPress. It’s a simple, genuine acknowledgment that speaks for itself. The only thing you have to do when presenting the Treasure Chest to a fellow blogger is write about why you love their blog. The nominee will then pass the Treasure Chest along–so on, and so forth.

Treasuring Bittersweet Lane is one of my favorite blogs to read. Braeden is an honest, multi-faceted writer, and he has a kind spirit. I’m thankful for his friendship, and the tremendous encouragement he offers me. I’m also thankful for his writing, as his work is something I look forward to reading every day. For this reason I’m going to nominate Braeden for his own award, AND pass the Treasure Chest along to Christine E. Ray at Brave and Reckless.

I love Brave and Reckless because Christine writes about the human condition with fierce courage. She is open about her truths, even when she is feeling vulnerable. Her words are uplifting, tragic, romantic, horrific, and stunningly beautiful. Christine inspires me to be my best self. I offer this award with great gratitude.


A Random Thought About God

God asked a man to kill his own son on an altar. Yeah, yeah, I know the outcome. God was so fucking happy to see that Abraham was obedient that he stopped the sacrifice before Isaac’s blood was shed. And Abraham was like, “Thank you, Lord. I will serve you more fervently now, because you are good. Thanks for sparing my son.”

Excuse me??? I’m sorry not sorry that I’m about to offend: If God said, “Kindra, this is Me speaking. I want you to take Nicole up the mountain, tie her down, and cut off her fucking beautiful head.” I’d be like, “Send me straight to hell, motherfucker. And fuck you for asking me to do such a thing, you needy, sadistic bitch.”

I dare any parent to tell me they wouldn’t do what I would do. Envision your child, defenseless against you. Do it…

For real. This is the shit people defend with their lives. Abraham is the sort of man we should admire–because of his devotion. Devotion to what?





My Fibromyalgia Check-list: Legit Reasons Why I’m a Surly Bitch


Fibromyalgia, insidious onset (yeah fucking right). Symptoms include:

  • Fatigue, worsened by physical exertion or stress (CHECK)
  • Activity level decreased to less than 50% of pre-illness activity level (CHECK)
  • Recurrent flu-like illness (CHECK)
  • Sore throat (CHECK)
  • Hoarseness (CHECK)
  • Tender or swollen lymph nodes (glands), especially in neck & underarms (CHECK)
  • Shortness of breath with little or no exertion (CHECK)
  • Frequent sighing (CHECK)
  • Tremor or trembling (CHECK)
  • Severe nasal allergies (new or worsened) (CHECK)
  • Cough (CHECK)
  • Night sweats (CHECK)
  • Low-grade fevers (CHECK)
  • Feeling cold often (CHECK)
  • Feeling hot often (CHECK)
  • Cold extremities (hands and feet) (CHECK)
  • Low body temperature (below 97.6)
  • Low blood pressure (below 110/70)
  • Heart palpitations
  • Dryness of eyes and/or mouth (CHECK)
  • Increased thirst (CHECK)
  • Symptoms worsened by temperature changes (CHECK)
  • Symptoms worsened by air travel
  • Symptoms worsened by stress (THAT’S A BIG 10-4)
  • Headache (CHECK–MIGRAINE)
  • Tender points or trigger points (DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME)
  • Muscle pain (CHECK)
  • Muscle twitching (CHECK)
  • Muscle weakness (CHECK)
  • Severe weakness of an arm or leg (CHECK)
  • Full or partial paralysis of an arm or leg
  • Joint pain (CHECK)
  • TMJ syndrome (MAYBE)
  • Chest pain (CHECK)
  • Eye pain (CHECK)
  • Changes in visual acuity (frequent changes in ability to see well)
  • Difficulty with accommodation (switching focus from one thing to another)
  • Blind spots in vision
  • Sensitivities to medications (unable to tolerate a “normal” dosage) (UMM, DUH)
  • Sensitivities to odors (e.g., cleaning products, exhaust fumes, colognes, hair sprays) (YES, YOU FUCKING STINK)
  • Sensitivities to foods (CHECK)
  • Alcohol intolerance (THANK FUCK, NO)
  • Alteration of taste, smell, and/or hearing
  • Frequent urination (CHECK)
  • Painful urination or bladder pain (CHECK)
  • Prostate pain
  • Impotence
  • Endometriosis
  • Worsening of premenstrual syndrome (PMS)
  • Decreased libido (sex drive) (UNFORTUNATELY)
  • Stomach ache; abdominal cramps (CHECK)
  • Nausea (CHECK)
  • Vomiting (YEP)
  • Esophageal reflux (heartburn) (CHECK)
  • Frequent diarrhea (THANKS, IBS)
  • Frequent constipation (AGAIN, THANKS, IBS)
  • Bloating; intestinal gas (BEANO DOESN’T HELP)
  • Decreased appetite (I WISH)
  • Increased appetite (LE SIGH…)
  • Food cravings (THAT’S FUCKING NORMAL, DUDE)
  • Weight gain (UGH)
  • Weight loss
  • Lightheadedness; feeling”spaced out” (CHECK)
  • Inability to think clearly (“brain fog”) (THAT’S CALLED COGNITIVE IMPAIRMENT. CHECK)
  • Seizures
  • Seizure-like episodes
  • Syncope (fainting) or blackouts
  • Sensation that you might faint
  • Vertigo or dizziness (CHECK)
  • Numbness or tingling sensations (CHECK)
  • Tinnitus (ringing in one or both ears) (CHECK)
  • Photophobia (sensitivity to light) (DARKNESS IS MY FRIEND)
  • Noise intolerance (SHUT THE FUCK UP)
  • Feeling spatially disoriented (CHECK)
  • Dysequilibrium (balance difficulty) (CHECK)
  • Staggering gait (clumsy walking; bumping into things) (CHECK)
  • Dropping things frequently (CHECK)
  • Difficulty judging distances (e.g. when driving; placing objects on surfaces) (CHECK)
  • “Not quite seeing” what you are looking at
  • Hypersomnia (excessive sleeping) (CHECK)
  • Sleep disturbance: unrefreshing or non-restorative sleep (CHECK)
  • Sleep disturbance: difficulty falling asleep (CHECK)
  • Sleep disturbance: difficulty staying asleep (frequent awakenings) (CHECK)
  • Sleep disturbance: vivid or disturbing dreams or nightmares (CHECK)
  • Altered sleep/wake schedule (alertness/energy best late at night) (CHECK)
  • Difficulty with simple calculations (e.g., balancing checkbook) (I CAN’T MATH)
  • Word-finding difficulty
  • Saying the wrong word (CHECK)
  • Difficulty expressing ideas in words (CHECK)
  • Difficulty moving your mouth to speak
  • Slowed speech
  • Stuttering; stammering
  • Impaired ability to concentrate (CHECK)
  • Easily distracted during a task
  • Difficulty paying attention
  • Difficulty following a conversation when background noise is present (CHECK)
  • Losing your train of thought in the middle of a sentence (WHAT?)
  • Difficulty putting tasks or things in proper sequence
  • Losing track in the middle of a task (remembering what to do next) (DAMN IT!)
  • Difficulty with short-term memory (DID I EAT BREAKFAST?)
  • Difficulty with long-term memory
  • Forgetting how to do routine things
  • Difficulty understanding what you read
  • Switching left and right
  • Transposition (reversal) of numbers, words and/or letters when you speak
  • Transposition (reversal) of numbers, words and/or letters when you write
  • Difficulty remembering names of objects (CHECK)
  • Difficulty remembering names of people (CHECK)
  • Difficulty recognizing faces
  • Poor judgment
  • Difficulty making decision (CHECK)
  • Difficulty following simple written instructions
  • Difficulty following complicated written instructions (CHECK)
  • Difficulty following simple oral (spoken) instructions
  • Difficulty following complicated oral (spoken) instructions (CHECK)
  • Difficulty integrating information (putting ideas together to form a complete picture or concept)
  • Difficulty following directions while driving
  • Becoming lost in familiar locations when driving
  • Feeling too disoriented to drive (CHECK)
  • Depressed mood (CHECK)
  • Suicidal thoughts (CHECK)
  • Suicide attempt(s)
  • Feeling worthless (CHECK)
  • Frequent crying (CHECK)
  • Feeling helpless and/or hopeless (CHECK)
  • Inability to enjoy previously enjoyed activities (CHECK)
  • Increased appetite (CHECK)
  • Decreased appetite
  • Anxiety or fear with no obvious cause (CHECK)
  • Panic attacks (CHECK)
  • Irritability; overreaction (FUUUUCK!)
  • Rage attacks: anger outbursts with little or no cause (LOOK THE FUCK OUT)
  • Abrupt, unpredictable mood swings (CHECK)
  • Phobias (irrational fears) (CHECK)
  • Personality changes (CHECK)
  • Rashes or sores (CHECK)
  • Eczema or psoriasis
  • Aphthous ulcers (canker sores)
  • Dental problems
  • Periodontal (gum) disease


Let’s Play Pretend

I’ve never let my imagination run away and out of my control; even as a child, I kept my personal fantasies realistic. I didn’t pretend I was a magician, or that a unicorn grazed in my backyard; and I don’t recall ever having an imaginary friend. Playing pretend with my friends was always a chore for me. I didn’t want to be cast as a green skinned witch, or a fairy-tale princess. I wanted to be a veterinarian, or a mother, or a writer—or all three. I spent more time directing, and building backstories for my friends’ characters than I did actual play-acting. What’s funny is I had no problem casting others in roles outside the scope of reality.

I believe I restrained my imagination for the same reason I demanded to dictate my friends: I felt unsafe in my home environment, and I needed to have control over something—anything separate from my mom and dad. I wanted to be a unicorn riding princess, but I couldn’t be one of those carefree kids and still be able to pay attention to my surroundings. I’ve been in survival mode since the day I was born, I swear.

When my little sister was old enough to play pretend, I loved playing with her, even when we played Mom and Baby, and I was the baby; I had to drink imaginary apple juice, even though I preferred imaginary grape. I didn’t mind giving in to Tara. Mostly. She’s a fucking mule, that one, and I must admit that I’ve legit lost to her countless times in my life simply because she’s a stronger personality than I. Can you imagine? A superior personality to mine??? Between the two of us, Tara is the real survivor since birth—she nearly died, ffs.

Tara talks about me all the time. She tells people I’m amazing for this reason and that, and when I meet these people, they have loads of questions. My sister is proud of me. She tells people I’m her best friend, and I’m the one who raised her. It makes me smile, knowing Tara loves me so much, and looks up to me. But it makes me sad, too. I shouldn’t have had to be her mother; I should have only been her big sister.

I’ve been Tara’s “mother” since she came home from the hospital. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m happy we’re so close. Aside from Jim, and Nicole, Tara is my best friend in the whole wide world. She amazes me, the level of patience she has for our mother; if not for Tara, our mother would no longer know me. Because I would have walked away a long time ago. It’s funny, Tara keeps me in our mother’s life, and I keep Tara in our dad’s.


Racist Bible Thumpers

I respect, and do defend the First Amendment. All of you KKK motherfuckers, you have the right to publicly barf your hatred. You can march with your swastika flags and Confederate flags all you like, but the real Americans with functioning brains are on to you hillbilly motherfuckers. I can generalize you all as hillbilly motherfuckers on my blog without real repercussion, because First Amendment, bitches.

How many of you piss-ant wannabes know the origin of the swastika? Do you know it has roots in Hinduism and Jainism? Of course not. Because you’re all racist thunder cunts who adopted your beliefs from a psycho-path with halitosis–Adolf Hitler. It makes me sick that he was smarter than most of you fucking idiots. Have any of you even looked up Hitler’s history?

All of you racist pricks claim you are upholding the law of the Bible.

Motherfuckers, I don’t believe in the bible.  I believe in equality.

Come at me.








Rotting Penis Disease


Memories are just fragments of film. It’s odd, some of the events our brains retain, be they home movies, or pure fiction–intricate fabrications focused tighter and tighter over time. The power of suggestion is strong, indeed. My mother is one of those story tellers who believes in the fables she’s invented, says my dad. I have no reliable source of reality in regards to my childhood, though I do tend to put heavier stock in most things my dad has to say, because he’s not bat shit crazy. Or is he? Dad did a lot of hard drugs when he was young, says my mother–she’s mentioned angel dust and heroine more than a handful of times. But that was before I was born, so why should I care? Right? Right?

These are some things that I know are real memories.

I do recall, without uncertainty, my dad harvesting some of the plants he’d raised in the basement of our house in Lapeer; I watched him roll a joint for himself, and he said, “Don’t you tell your mother.” I also remember when our tabby cat, Thomas, somehow found himself locked inside “Dad’s Room,” and when we discovered him, several plants had been chewed to fuck all. Oh, Thomas!

Dad and Grandpa had fields of weed some fucking place in B.F.E. (which means Bum Fuck Egypt for reasons I do not know). Once my mother began working nights, dad had no choice but to take my sister and I along for the ride out to green fucking acres (I’ve just now come up with that). At age eight, or nine, or ten, I didn’t know what the hell dad was doing, parking his truck in the middle of nowhere, and wandering off into the tall weeds for thirty plus minutes. Tara and I would sit in the dark, and listen to hordes of crickets–or God forbid, the unholy June Bugs. Sometimes dad would leave the radio on for us. Other times we would play the Color Game–that’s when one of us would think of a color, and the other would guess; we’d take turns, guessing the same goddamned colors over and over again. I invented the Color Game one night when Tara couldn’t sleep, for whatever reason–she was an extremely anxious child. It was my way of trying to soothe her without allowing her to climb down from her top bunk and into my bed. She always did end up sleeping beside me. Tara and I grew up best friends, though my role leaned heavily toward mother, even before our parents were divorced.

I was five years old when Tara was born. I’d wanted a brother, for reasons only a five year old girl might be able to explain. My mother had had a long, hard labor. She’d lost a lot of blood, and Tara, who was ultimately taken by C-section, almost drowned in that blood. It was several days for both mother and newborn in the hospital before my dad finally took me to meet my sister. I remember it was night, and Dad had bought me a McDonald’s Happy Meal to eat on our way to Hurley. I sat in the back of the station wagon, stomach in knots, stuffing french fries, and chucks of cheeseburger into whatever crease and crevice available to me. I don’t recall the toy that accompanied my food. That’s a detail my brain did not retain, probably because seeing my baby sister for the first time was/is paramount. My dad held her up before me, and I fell immediately in love with the raven haired baby named Tara.

The day Dad was able to finally bring my mother and sister home, he discovered the remains of my uneaten Happy Meal. “When I asked you if you’d eaten all your food, you said, ‘yes, daddy.’ So why is there food smashed all over in the backseat?” I don’t recall my response, but it most likely involved tears. My dad scared the fuck out of me when he was angry. Hell, he still does, though anger is something exhibited rarely these days. Now, my dad is all enlightened and shit. He hasn’t raised his voice to me since I was sixteen, and his (then) sister-in-law caught me and my (then) step-brother trying to steal cigarettes from the grocery store where she worked. In our defense, back then store management was lacking considering the easy placement of tobacco products. Liquor, too.

Dustin, my (then) step-brother and I used to climb out his bedroom window when our parents were out and sit on the roof; we’d smoke stolen smokes and drink stolen Hot Damn. I had a pipe some dude at my high school made for me, and if I didn’t have any cigarettes, Dustin and I would use it to smoke tobacco we’d loosened from butts we found in ashtrays, or laying around the yard.

I loved Dustin. Until he molested Tara. Now, I hope he’s contracted a penis disease that’s left him dysfunctional, and makes women weep upon the sight of it. Like, I hate him so much, I hope he can’t even masturbate because it’s fucking broken all to fuck, and ugly as sin. I hope the sight of his own penis makes him cry out in terror. And I hope bits of skin fall off into the toilet every time he takes a piss. I hope it looks like an overly grilled bratwurst that has been soaking in a pot of stinking hotdog water. I hope the only thing he is remembered for after he dies is the stench of his rotting penis.