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Things Sculptures Think 6

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As a reminder, while we were on our tour of cities along the Seine, we saw a lot of sculptures. I happen to quite like sculpture, but at certain point, I hit information overload and my way of coping was imagining what the sculptures were thinking. For your viewing pleasure, I’ve been sharing their inner monologues of some of the sculptures we saw. Here’s another. Fair warning: statues are crass.

Musee D'Orsay 3

“Don’t get me wrong, I love being able to work from home. I don’t even have to get dressed in the morning. Every day is casual Friday around here, bitchez! 24/7 naked time!! But damn, all that typing and jerking off. I think I’m getting carpal tunnel syndrome…”

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Things Sculptures Think 5

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Continuing on with the inner monologues of some of the sculptures we saw in France:

Musee D'Orsay 5 cropped

“Okay, Jenn, you balance the toilet paper roll on your head and I’ll take the selfie and sext it to Brian. Then we can live stream our pillow fight!”

Things Sculptures Think 4

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I’ve been sharing the inner monologues of some of the sculptures we saw in France. This one is short and sweet. Fair warning: statues like to swear a lot.

Paris - Tuilleries 8 cropped

“I can’t believe I’m fucking naked with a fucking pigeon on my head in the middle of fucking Paris. Again.”

Things Sculptures Think 3

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Continuing yesterday’s awesomeness, I’m sharing the inner thoughts of some of the sculptures we saw along our trip down the Seine. This trio was hanging out in the Louvre, which just seems dangerous to me. What if one of their balls (I mean the actual balls, not the one guy’s testicles) got away from them while they were playing and broke something? Clearly security at the Louvre is getting lax. Fair warning: statues like to swear a lot.

Louvre 29

“This has to be the worst game ever. Are we playing badminton? Baseball? We need to rethink what we hit the ball with. Maybe we should invent Quidditch now.”

Louvre 4

“Quit your bitching. I can’t believe I lost the coin toss. Next time we’re playing shirts and skins, not pants and skins.”

Louvre 7

“Shut up. Can someone get me a fucking sports bra?”

Things Sculptures Think 2

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As promised yesterday, I’m going to share the inner monologues of some of the sculptures we saw. Fair warning: statues like to swear a lot.

Paris - Tuilleries 3

“I am tired of all these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!”

Things Sculptures Think

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While we were on our tour of cities along the Seine, we saw a lot of sculptures. I happen to quite like sculpture, but at certain point, I hit information overload and my way of coping was imagining what the sculptures were thinking. For your viewing pleasure, over the coming days, I’m going to share the inner monologues of some of the sculptures we saw. Fair warning: statues like to swear a lot.

Versailles 16

“Shit. I’m exhausted. That was a rough battle. Luckily, I looked cool in my awesome hemp necklace. I was…wait. Is that an ear? Is that AN EAR?! Oh my god, there’s a fucking ear lying on the ground right next to me! I think I’m gonna throw up. I’d move, but I appear to have lost part of my foot…Holy shit, is that my ear?! This day suuuuuuucks.”

Holla!

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Just got another great review of the book by a book blogger! Hollaaaaaa! Check it out on her blog, Brittany Reads, or read it below:

“Fractured Memories: Because Demented People Need Love Too by Emily Page is a profoundly raw account of one family’s experience of caring for a father with frontotemporal dementia (FTD).  The story is told from the perspective of an adult daughter (the author) who is caring for her father along with her husband and her mother. The book has three parts.  This first part of the book is much like a traditional memoir, with the author’s experience recounted in a narrative.  The second part of the book reads a bit like a series of journal entries, raw and largely unedited recounts of caring for her father.  The author is an artist, and the third part of the book is a series of paintings she created that out of her caregiving experience.

The author’s love for her father is the greatest testament of this book.  Yes, the author becomes angry, emotionally frayed and anxiety-ridden in the seven years she cared for her father, and sometimes those emotions are even directed at her father.  But she never walks from the situation. Underneath all the difficult emotion was an abundantly present love of a daughter. The first chapter recounts her father’s life before his diagnosis. It’s a beautiful celebration of his life before dementia, including his sense of humor, his extraordinary passion for trains and music, and his time as a First Lieutenant in the Vietnam War.

Frontotemporal dementia is described as disease of a thousand goodbyes, like slowly losing the person you love in stages.  The author writes:

“When I got home, I, of course, got online and started researching the disease. What I saw was not good. Asshole internet, which so very often lies, refused to lie to me that night. The symptoms all matched: odd social behavior (disinhibition), inability to make changes or follow complicated instructions, heightened emotion, depression. Treatment was aimed at managing symptoms, not slowing or stopping the disease. There were no medications for that. Prognosis: death two to ten years after diagnosis, probably from pneumonia after aspirating food because of muscle failure. Two to ten years. Two to ten years. Two to ten years.”

This book leveled me.  I openly wept several times while reading it, especially in the second part of the book that read like a series of mostly unedited journal entries. I learned a great deal about the impact dementia has on a family. I also learned a great deal about how to advocate for someone living with this terrible disease.

The writing style is casual, and portions of the book read like an email from a friend.   It took a while for me to adjust to the casual style. I very much enoyed the artwork throughout the book.  The author uses images of elephants to portray herself, her father, and dementia itself because “an elephant never forgets” and “An elephant’s faithful 100 percent.”  The book ends with a list of songs, a playlist of the music that was mentioned throughout the book and has a special meaning or memory tied to the author and her father.  Fractures Memories is a must read for anyone who loves or cares for anyone living with dementia.”

And now, take a moment to read some of her other book reviews to find some other great new indie authors!!

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If you’d like to see my ridiculous thoughts translated into art, visit my website, or follow me on Facebook and Twitter. Know a caregiver, or someone with dementia, or someone who knows someone with dementia, or someone who knows someone who knows someone else who’s a caregiver? Or heck, do you know a person? Well, you should tell them about my book, Fractured Memories: Because Demented People Need Love, Too. Part memoir and part coffee table art book, I recount my family’s heartbreaking and hilarious journey through my father’s dementia. Available to purchase here (this is my favorite way if you live in the U.S.), here or here if you’d rather get the eBook than a print copy, and here (especially if you want a hard cover copy).

My Cervix Is Not a Cloaca

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My cervix is an asshole. I mean, not technically. It’s not, like, a cloaca or anything, even though it’s acting kind of shitty. It’s still a cervix. But it’s kind of being a dick. Again, not technically. It’s still a lady-part. What I mean is that, for the last 6 or 7 years, it’s taken its job as Guardian of the Galaxy waaaaaay too seriously – like, thin Chris Pratt seriously, even though we all know fat Chris Pratt is so much funnier (yes, my friends finally talked me into watching Parks and Rec and I’m part way through the second season so it’s virtually all I think about).

chris pratt

Gentlemen, you should probably look away now.

Ladies, does your cervix cooperate? Because mine is all, “You ain’t payin’ rent, so you ain’t comin’ in,” to my doctor when she tries to get a sample during a pap smear. She pokes and prods whispers sweet nothings into my vagina, but my cervix is closed for business. If it had a shoulder, it would give her a cold one. Then, when the doctor finally gives up, my body throws a dance party, but it clearly gets out of control and turns into a mosh pit which is all fun and games until someone pokes an eye out…if my cervix had eyes…or even just one eye…which it doesn’t…I’m pretty sure. Anyway, I’m sure the mosh pit is fun for my reproductive organs, but I interpret all that hurling itself around as painful cramping which is less fun. Also, I feel a little left out that I wasn’t invited to the party. I can rock a lampshade on my head with the best of them. But I guess you don’t really wear a lampshade in a mosh pit (etiquette and all), so maybe that’s why I wasn’t invited.

So, then I asked my doctor if my cervix had, like, super powers, and I no longer need birth control to avoid getting pregnant because it would stop sperm in their tracks, but she just looked at me condescendingly and patiently explained that sperm are microscopic, and my cervix isn’t magical. Then she also reminded me that when I go off of the pill, my endometriosis goes craycray and I get erythema nordosum, so I should really stay on it. But then I said that maybe my cervix was so magical that it caused the erythema nordosum just to give itself a break, which is genius and pretty much the best birth control ever because no man wants to be with a woman covered in boils. My cervix is smart, y’all. I suggested we make it a cape in case it also has the ability to fly. Then she noted something in my chart and left the room. I don’t know why.

So I dressed quickly and hightailed it out of there before she either ordered a psych consult or alerted the enemy about my superhero cervix.

P.S. Cross your fingers that the doctor got enough of a sample that I don’t have to go back again for another try and pay for it again.

P.P.S. I was going to draw you a little picture of my cervix wearing a cape, but then I Googled cervix images to work from, and now I need to go throw up. Or drink some bourbon.

Guest Post – When Only F#*k Will Do

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I wanted you to be able to start your day off right. Today’s guest post comes from Christine Knapp from I’m Sick and So Are You. This girl gets it, y’all. She’s dealt with serious physical pain and laughed in its face, while still being honest about how much it sucks. She’s our kind of people. When you’re done reading, head over and give her a little sugar (she just moved to The South, so she’ll have to get used to things being overly sweetened now).
One day, sitting in the very last seat of the very last table in the very last row of my middle school history class, I heard someone call, “Is there a Christine in the class?” I sheepishly raised my hand. “Oh good, could you come with me?” I followed closely behind, having to double up my pace at times, while the middle aged man introduced himself as the assistant principal.
I had never before been in trouble, nor had I been an academic scholar and I sure as hell had never won anything, so I didn’t quite understand why I was being called into the assistant principal’s office. After we hurried up the stairs and rushed past the secretary, he offered me a seat in his shoebox sized office. I scanned the pictures of his generic family while he smoothed out a few pages of notebook paper.
“I found someone reading this note during school hours and I confiscated it. I wasn’t going to read it, but a few of the words caught my eye.” As he held up the note I could see that it was my handwriting. It was a note that I’d written the previous day and stupidly signed my name to before handing it to my very best friend. It contained every profane word known to mankind. That note would have made a sailor blush. I sat motionless while he picked up the phone, called my mother at work, and read every last one of those words to her. I fucking hate that guy, to this very day.
For the life of me, I can’t remember the exact thing that caused me to unleash my profane fury, but this was middle school, so it could have been pretty much anything. Perhaps it was the time I got my period all over my beige jeans. Or, maybe it was the time my crush, Brian, brought me into a room with all his friends and made me think he was going to ask me out on a date so they could all laugh at me when I figured out he was just pulling my leg. But, then, it could have been the time the giant bully in my science class threatened to punch me and made me cry. Seriously, fuck middle school. Middle school is the worst.
It doesn’t matter what happened to trigger my angst, although I pretty much figure it’s the fact that I was wearing beige jeans. Beige jeans are rage inducing. The reality is, in some situations, only the word ‘fuck’ will do. Now, you might want to change things up a bit and use one of its many variations. You’ve got your fuckwad, nutfuck, and motherfucker (my personal favorite), but there needs to be a fuck in there somewhere because sometimes fuck is the word you’re looking for.
When your neighbor calls the cops on you the very first day you move into your apartment you’re not going to ask “What the heck?” No, ma’am. You are going to look at your husband straight in the face and say, “What the fuck is wrong with those people?” Then, you might want to shoot the bird toward the floor and whisper ‘fuck off’, strictly for therapeutic reasons.
You don’t describe the pain you feel after waking up from a surgery where they removed a tumor, some leg muscle, and chipped away at your hip bone as pretty uncomfortable. Nuh-uh. You tell it like it is. That shit fucking hurts. It hurts like a motherfucker. Better still, it fucking hurts like a fucking motherfucker. I can tell you, from my personal experience, it really does.
Fuck is the only thing that’ll get you through stubbing your toe on the coffee table, banging your funny bone on the kitchen counter, and knocking your head into the car door. You’re sadly deluded if you think ‘ouch’ is going to cut it under those circumstances. When it’s hot, you’re not making love, you’re fucking. When it’s not, well you might need to get the fuck outta there.
Fuck isn’t dainty. It isn’t subtle, doesn’t have soft edges. Fuck is pungent and boisterous. It busts down the door in lieu of knocking. It’s often inappropriate, occasionally awkward. Fuck isn’t wary or leery, it’s not timid. It’s brave and bold and when all else fails and fudge and heck and dang aren’t cutting it, fuck will see you through because sometimes only fuck will do.
Now go visit her blog and peruse and muse.

#PersonifyME: Emily Page

Mindfump.

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When I was in my early twenties, my anxiety and depression got so bad that I was hospitalized for it. This painting – 4th Floor – is the image of that time.

Emily Page
www.emilypageart.net

Facebook// emilypageart
Twitter// @EmilyPageArt23
Instagram// emilypageart

This project is run in partnership with Things Dre Makes, and will run for the whole month of May – Mental Health Awareness Month. The idea is to personify a mental illness or difficult emotion you are facing. 

Want to take part? Submit your entry here

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