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Dispelling Welfare Myths

Photo by Xavier Sotomayor on Unsplash

Back in February, I did a Facebook thread on common misconceptions about people who receive social services such as cash assistance and food stamps (also known as SNAP). I did this because I’m constantly seeing uninformed posts on Facebook bashing people who receive these services, and honestly… I just got tired of it. I shared statistics and links to sources.

Facebook’s search function is a nightmare, though, so I decided to gather everything here, that way I can link to this post in the future without having to hunt through my Facebook profile. Please feel free to share this post to help inform people!


I’ve been a recipient of SNAP—also known as food stamps—for the last two years, and I’m intimately familiar with the system.

To begin with, not everyone can just go online or march into a DSS office and walk out with cash assistance and food stamps. There’s an application process with multiple points of vetting—meaning there are several ways they prevent anyone from lying and taking advantage of the system.

You must provide your social security number, your address, proof of income (including pay stubs, tax forms, 1099s, etc), proof of living expenses such as rent and utilities. By the way, you can only claim rent and electricity as utilities.

It’s actually quite a lengthy process and a total pain in the ass. Not fun for someone with arthritis who can’t sit for more than an hour, whose stiff fingers don’t like typing, scrolling, etc.

You have to meet a LONG list of eligibility qualifications, too. For example, if you don’t have a good reason for being unable to keep a job, such as disability, you don’t qualify. Here’s the list of criteria. You don’t even want to read it, it’s so damned long.

You also have to regularly submit proof of income and other documentation. So, if you somehow lied your way through the initial process, there are checks and balances. Your ass will get caught, and bye-bye benefits.

The number of people cheating the system is actually extremely low. Offhand, I don’t have statistics, but each state regularly weeds out the bottomfeeders by enforcing this vetting process. And it’s a pain in the ass for those of us who are legit, so most scammers aren’t going to waste their time trying to forge or bypass it. Trust me.

Update: Based on the statistics of people who legitimately need SNAP, I’ve determined that less than three percent of people receiving SNAP may be scamming the system.

Further, SNAP does not cover non-food items. It doesn’t cover diamond rings or sneakers or purses or getting your nails done. If you try to add non-food items to your order, the system will automatically weed them out and force you to pay cash for them. Hell, it doesn’t even cover my Emergen-C, which is a vitamin-rich drink mix. There’s literally no way to get around this, either.

Now, let’s talk about the benefits themselves. The amount is so small, it’s hardly even worth it if you don’t really need it. Mike and I get $108 each month. Do you know what that covers? Not much. We can’t afford groceries out of pocket, so I’ve had to get really savvy. For example, I rarely buy things like mac ‘n’ cheese or those quick pasta or rice sides; they’re too expensive, so I just make them from scratch with seasonings and chicken broth. Now, remember that I have arthritis. Quick sides are my best damned friends. But I can’t afford them, nor can I afford freezer meals for those bad pain days when I can barely stand, never mind cook. People on food stamps are not buying steak and lobster, people. We can hardly afford pasta and chicken.

That said, it’s none of your god damned business what I feed my body. Many SNAP recipients are cancer patients or people with chronic illnesses; foods that are rich in iron, like steak, are extremely beneficial to our health. The SNAP program was created to make sure that people receive proper nutrition—yes, even us disgusting poor people.

Now, it is true that the more family members in your household, the more benefits you receive. However, I can’t just claim my Aunt Bob Who Doesn’t Exist lives with me; these have to be dependents, like children, or spouses or parents that you care for. You have to prove that they’re actual dependents, using tax return information, driver’s licenses or state IDs, etc. It’s another lengthy process that most career scammers aren’t going to bother with.

People who hate welfare—you know, the ones who claim that everyone who’s on welfare is taking advantage of the system, is lazy, doesn’t have a job, etc—are usually uninformed. They claim that people on welfare are all illegal Mexicans or some other racist crap. The truth? Brace yourselves! 39.8% of SNAP recipients are white people.

I’ll say it louder for those in the back of the room: THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE RECEIVING SNAP BENEFITS ARE WHITE PEOPLE.

So, when your white uncle starts bitching about all the people sucking off the state, he’s really just bitching about other white people.

Your racist uncle insists Puerto Ricans are popping out kids so they can get food stamps. It’s not true, friend. Not true.

Only 10.9% of SNAP recipients are Latinx.

25.5% of SNAP recipients are black.

Do the math. That’s 36.5%. Your racist uncle claims that the majority of people on SNAP are black or brown people leaching off the system, but the truth is that 39.8% of SNAP recipients are white people. 39.8 is bigger than 36.5, racist uncle.

In total, 76% of SNAP benefits go towards households with children, 11.9% go to households with disabled persons, and 10% go to households with senior citizens.

Update: See my notes above; these statistics are where I got my numbers for percentage of people potentially abusing the system.

For those in the back of the room, THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE ON SNAP ARE PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY NEED IT. Mic drop. Auntie Liz out.

Just a clarification: I’m not saying the 36.5% people of color who are on SNAP don’t need it. I’m saying the majority of people of all ethnicities who are on SNAP have serious reasons for needing it.

So next time your racist dad or uncle or friend starts with that “people living off the state” crap, drop these facts for them and tell them to go stuff some steak in their face.


If you appreciate the time it took for me to put this together, please consider supporting me!

What Will Happen to Me If Obamacare Is Repealed

Photo by Samuel Zeller on Unsplash

In a very dismal but possible future, Obamacare—also known as the Affordable Care Act or ACA—could be repealed and replaced with Trumpcare (ACHA), leaving millions of Americans without healthcare. Including disabled and elderly people. Including me.

This is what will happen to me if Obamacare is repealed and replaced with Trumpcare.

At first, I’ll be okay. It’ll take some time for things to go into effect. My doctors will prescribe me months’ worth of my medications in advance and I’ll fill them at the pharmacy before my insurance officially lapses. Like a dystopian YA character, I’ll have a precious stockpile.

Eventually I’ll run out, though.

The medication that was slowing my immune system’s attack on my connective tissues will go out of my system. I will be crippled and debilitated, trapped in bed again with unbearably stiff and aching joints. But I won’t be able to turn to my pain medicine, because that will be gone too. I’ll try to make due with heating pads, Advil, and Tiger Balm, but that’s like slapping a Band-Aid on a stab wound. My hands will be too stiff for me to write, so I’ll no longer earn a living.

Family members with cancer and degenerative disc disease won’t be able to give me their extra pain medicine, because they’ll have run out, too.

When I need to shower, dress, or use the bathroom, my husband will have to help me again. Usually I’ll be alone, though, because he works full-time. I’ll spend most of my time in bed or on the couch.

We won’t be able to afford the health insurance his employer offers. Under Obamacare, it was already expensive, but after Trumpcare, the rates skyrocketed. Insurance is now precious like gold. And the rule of supply and demand is high prices.

We can’t afford my medications out of pocket, either. A two-month supply of the main medicine I require is $800 before Trumpcare. Pharmaceutical companies recognize the high demand and raise their prices, too. We’re forced to choose between rent and groceries or my medication. We choose shelter and food.

I’m worse off than I was before I got a diagnosis and started treatment. I can’t afford to see my doctors to at least monitor my disease. It develops into full-blown Lupus and begins attacking my organs. My kidneys shut down. I’m hospitalized and the bills begin racking up. My family rallies to try to help, but they’ve also got to take care of my grandmother who has cancer and can no longer afford her treatments because of Trumpcare. There just isn’t enough money.

I leave the hospital with prescriptions I can’t fill and an overwhelmingly high bill that I’ll never be able to pay off. I’m still making monthly payments on my student loan—a degree that’s been useless to me in part because of my disease.

I’ve tried to stay positive. I’m a fighter, after all. A survivor. But everyone around me is suffering, and I can’t even help myself. My husband is so stressed, his health worsens. His arthritis and migraines become completely debilitating and he can no longer work to support us.

We move back in with my parents. My dad stays home full-time to care for my grandmother. My mom is the only one working in the family, and her insurance only covers her and Dad. There isn’t enough money to take care of all of us. My sister and other family members try to help when they can, but they have people who rely on them, too.

And it’s not only our family that is affected.

Across the country, people become sicker. The massive cuts to welfare prevent them from getting assistance. The entire nation goes into a health crisis. Only the very wealthy can afford healthcare. Crowdfunding pages are set up, and some good Samaritans donate, but after a while people get tired of seeing sick people asking for help on Facebook. The donations stop.

The U.S. goes into a widespread state of depression. Millions of lives are lost, deaths that could have been prevented with affordable, comprehensive preventive healthcare. Disease spreads—previously obsolete due to vaccinations, but people can no longer afford them.

People who are wealthy and still healthy flee the country, immigrating to better places. The once proud United States declines. There is no longer an American dream—just a wasteland resembling a third-world country.

That’s because we are one now.


America doesn’t become great by moving back. Only by progressing do we become the place of dreams and great things.

I need able-bodied people to fight for me, my grandmother, my godson, and other chronically ill and disabled people. I need you to do more than just passively share things on social media.

You need to call your senators and insist that they oppose Trumpcare.

My senators have been fighting this from the beginning. There is nothing I can do other than sit and watch, wait to see what my future will be. I’m begging you.

There’s still time. We can still turn this around.

Call your senators and fight for us.

How I Know I’m Bisexual

via Mary (Flickr)

Everyone’s experience is different, but I knew I was bisexual from an early age. I just didn’t have the vocabulary to explain the identity.

I was kind of a boy-chasing little kid. I ran after them on the playground, I got in trouble for kissing them, and crushed hard. People would ask me which boys I liked and I always had a running list. It was different with girls, though.

No one ever asked me which girls I liked. It probably never even crossed their minds. With girls, I was more shy. These crushes manifested as close friendships. I didn’t really know how to explain my feelings. The people I knew were in m/f marriages or relationships. I didn’t know there was any other way.

In middle school, I started to realize there was something different about me. On the bus, I couldn’t help but stare at certain girls as they moved past me. I knew what a lesbian was but I also knew that didn’t quite fit me. That didn’t stop other kids from calling me Lesbo or twisting my nickname (Liz, which they made sound like “Les”). They knew I was different, too, and they punished me for it.

It wasn’t until high school that I found my people and my identity. Two friends of mine came out. They announced that they were bisexual and dating, and it kicked off a whole LGBT+ movement in my school. Suddenly there was a word to describe a part of who I was, and I had a safe place where it was okay to be me.

I’ve been bi my whole life. I’ll always be bi. Whether I’m in a relationship with another woman, single, or married to a guy with a lot of facial hair… I’ll still be bisexual.

I’m proud of all of the parts that make up who I am. It hasn’t been easy, being queer—or me in general, to be honest—but I now have a pride that no one can take from me.


Speaking of pride, my #OwnVoices f/f romance Any Other Love comes out August 21st, 2017! Pre-order your copy now for only $0.99, or read the first chapter.

Pre-Order Your Copy of Any Other Love for Only $0.99

Cover Reveal: August 14th

Surprise! You can now pre-order Any Other Love for only 99 pennies. My goal is to launch Any Other Love in the top 100 in the lesfic category on Amazon, so if you pre-order now you’re saving money and doing me a solid.

Pre-ordering with the other retailers helps, too, so if you’re a non-Kindle user like me, you’re also helping.

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Blurb

From the outside, Amarie has it all: a promising teaching career, a big group of friends, and a gorgeous boyfriend. On the inside, though, her immune system is attacking her own body and slowly taking away everything she loves. The specialists she’s seen are baffled by her condition, so Amarie takes matters into her own hands and makes an appointment with a renowned rheumatologist in NYC. She could finally get the diagnosis and treatment she needs to live her life—if only she can get there.

Charlotte may dye her hair bold colors, but she’s never been brave enough to chase her lifelong dream of owning her own restaurant. When she finds out about a restauranteur convention in NYC, she’s way too chicken to go for it—until her best friend signs her up. With no excuses left, Char heads out to the city, taking the girl of her dreams with her.

Five nights under the city lights could give Amarie and Char the happily-ever-after they’ve always wanted, but a devastating diagnosis and once-in-a-lifetime opportunity could send it all crashing down.

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They Came for the Muslims, and We Said No

Friday morning, a friend texted me: “Anti-Muslim hate group is holding a rally in Waterbury tomorrow. Call me!” I was barely awake but I was pissed. I spent the rest of the day getting ready to protest the rally.

Until this weekend, I’d never been to a protest. I’ve wanted to go, but distance and/or chronic illness usually prevent me. Even Saturday was difficult, standing on my bad hip for two hours straight. But it was worth it.

The Southern Poverty Law Center recognizes ACT for America as a hate group. They’ve long spread anti-Muslim propaganda, but on Saturday they held rallies nationwide in protest of Sharia Law.

Post 9/11, I started studying Islam thanks to my 8th grade teacher, Mrs. Barra. I’m no expert, and I’m sure an actual Muslim can explain it better, but ACT—and many others—are twisting Shari’a to further their anti-Muslim agenda.

Shari’a is the act of following your divine path, or God’s will. At its core, Islam is made up of five pillars, or guidelines for living:

  • faith
  • prayer
  • fasting
  • pilgrimage
  • charity

Shari’a is open to interpretation. So yeah, some people do use Shari’a to do terrible things. Those people aren’t true Muslims, though… and no one is trying to impose anything called Sharia Law in the U.S., anyway.

via Connecticut Representative Elizabeth Esty

The hate group discusses things like female gender mutilation and oppression of women—which Muslims already condemn. I mean, if you’re really concerned about women’s rights, you should probably focus your energy on assisting Planned Parenthood and keeping the ACA. Usually, though, people railing against “Sharia Law” are just using it as a thinly veiled excuse to abuse Muslims.

Unfortunately, people want to stay angry and ignorant. They want someone to blame for horrible things that happen, and they’ve made Muslims their scapegoat. It takes two seconds to Google the basics of Islam or—gasp—ask an actual Muslim.

On Saturday, several groups in my home city came out to support Muslims, including the ACLU. I wasn’t happy that we had to be there in the first place, but it was truly heartening to see so many different people standing with our Muslim sisters and brothers. It gave me hope.

One man invited people to attend one of the mosques, and another woman told the crowd that her organization will gladly come talk to groups about Islam. Muslims weren’t the only speakers, though. Leaders from local temples, churches, and other places of worship spoke about unity. Several people also implored non-Muslims to speak up if they ever see or hear something wrong. Too many people talked about being afraid to go out in public, but one woman said that, looking at the people who came out, she wasn’t scared.

The protest went well, even with the teachers’ 5K literally running through the rally and protest. Though a couple people walked by and yelled stupid shit at us, everyone was safe. Like my father-in-law said, it was too bad that the people supporting ACT wouldn’t just walk across the street and listen.

Though I walked away with sunburn, I also walked away with hope. I saw a couple people I know there, supporting Muslims in our community. I saw a little boy bravely lead a chant. I saw people in my city—a city that can too often keep its head down and ignore what’s happening—come together.

This weekend they came for the Muslims, and the people of my city said fuck that.

 

Romance Roundup

The lovely Jade C. Jamison has organized this awesome contest for romance readers! One-click your way to a happily ever after, then enter to win one of three Amazon gift cards (or the equivalent at the ebook store of your choice).

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As part of the Romance Roundup, Twisted Broken Strings (South of Forever prequel) is FREE. Grab your copy now!

If she lets him into her band, she’ll have to let him into her heart.

Koty Jackson wanted to be a rock star, not a singer in the boy band ESX. When he finds out that Jett Costa is looking for a new guitarist and vocalist for her band, Perpetual Smile, Koty is determined to get his demo to her label. But his agent thinks he’s crazy, and when he runs into Jett for a late-night television interview, she tells him that she’ll never allow him in her band.

Jett Costa wasn’t looking for love. After losing the love of her life and the man who helped her build Perpetual Smile from the ground up, all she wants to do is get through their tour in one piece. She never thought she would let a boy band singer in her band—and she also didn’t think she would fall in love with him.

But if things stay the way they are, neither of them will ever get ahead in their careers. Somehow, they’ve got to come to an agreement—or they’ll both fall into obscurity.

Twisted Broken Strings is the PREQUEL to the South of Forever series.

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Baby’s First Gray

It’s really more of a reddish blonde gray.

Today I hit two milestones: I reached 55K words for my work in progress (Any Other Love), and I yanked out my first gray hair.

I’m not proud to admit that I cried. My thick, very dark, 3B curls are my favorite feature. My hair has been relatively unscathed by my UCTD (aside from some thinning along my temples); with Plaquenil, it’s grown back in just as thick as it used to be. So yeah, I’m a little vain about my hair.

I did some whining and pouting, endured some of Mike’s jokes, then went to do the dishes.

“Hey,” he called. “Do you have any ink?”

“Fuck off!”

“I’m serious. I need to print a label.”

I’m going gray, but life goes on.

In an ironic twist, I was just talking about gray hairs last weekend with my Nana. She was saying how hers grow in a reddish blonde gray and we got to talking about dye. I said I’ve always planned on dying my hair a fun color when it goes gray, because for the first time in my life I won’t have to bleach it to death to get it to take the color.

Sigh.

I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t immediately start researching what happens when curly hair goes gray. Sometimes its curl type changes, but it almost always gets more coarse. So I’ll really have to baby it and moisturize it.

I may be going gray, but at least I wrote 5,000 words today.

Why It’s So Hard to Ask

In 2016, I finally got my anxiety and depression under control by participating in trauma therapy for my PTSD. In November, that all went away. Every day brings a new lineup of surreal, horrific headlines. New policies take aim at me, people I love, and people I’ve never met but feel for nonetheless. Hate crimes are on the rise and I worry constantly for friends and strangers alike. I’ve been having panic attacks, nightmares, and just feel horribly anxious in general.

It’s trauma all over again.

I’ve been saying for weeks that I might need to have my prescription for Ativan refilled. Over a year ago, I said goodbye to all psychiatric medication because antidepressants don’t play well with my system. I also stopped taking Ativan because I didn’t need it; meditation, self-care, and getting enough sleep were working for me.

Yesterday I decided I was finally going to ask for an Ativan refill. I have a lot of anxiety surrounding asking for medicines because it’s been harder and harder to get refills for my pain medicine. The war on prescription drugs has made casualties out of patients who rely on them—people who follow the rules and safety guidelines.

It took a lot for me to ask. I felt a panic attack coming on from the second I left my house. It didn’t help that I finally lost my ongoing battle with the narrow walls in my driveway and gouged my car on my way out. Sigh. Then I drove right past my doctor’s office and had to turn around, which made me a few minutes late. My anxiety ramped up with each passing second. I decided not to ask.

After discussing my IBS and UCTD, though, my doctor asked if there was anything else he could do for me. He’s new to the practice and I switched to him from the APRN I’d been seeing. I really liked him after my first appointment; he’d been attentive and kind. Taking a deep breath, I told myself to just do it. It was okay to ask, I told myself. There’s no shame in asking for something I need.

“Okay. Um. I’ve been having a lot of trouble with anxiety lately, and I was wondering if I could refill my Ativan.”

There. I’d done it. I felt immensely proud of myself. Even if I didn’t need it, at least I could keep it in my purse. It was there just for reassurance. I could make it through any panic attacks while continuing my regimen of meditation, relaxation, and regular unplugging from social media.

“Ativan isn’t a good anti-anxiety medication to start off with,” my doctor said.

I nodded; I was completely open to trying something else if necessary, though I’d thought Ativan was the lightest of its kind. (Turns out Ativan is somewhere in the middle.) But then my doctor switched gears entirely, urging me to check with my rheumatologist about Tramadol and whether it’s the best pain treatment for me.

This confused me, because I’d thought all of my doctors were in agreement that I’d stick to Tramadol as needed because it’s working for me. My rheumatologist had told me that in bad weather, I’d still have flareups, so Tramadol and Advil on those days were okay. But my doctor was talking as if he wanted me to stop Tramadol completely.

I also felt like he was brushing off my anxiety, because he suddenly said he’d be back in a few minutes. I started to panic, because not only was I not getting an Ativan refill, but it also looked like I was losing Tramadol. Again.

Plaquenil, Prednisone, Tramadol, and Advil are the medicines that give me quality of life. They’re the difference between being bedridden, wracked with pain, and actually getting out and living. When it’s a constant fight to keep the medications you need in order to have a good life, it can be emotionally crippling when someone threatens to take them away. There is nothing I fear more than my pain forcing me back into bed. I don’t want to go back to needing my husband to dress me every day. I would prefer to have Tramadol on hand when the weather gets nasty and my joint pain flares so that I can continue living.

I’m tired of being brushed off or treated as if I’m doing something wrong when I ask for medicine—especially when I hadn’t even asked him for Tramadol. He’d refilled my prescription the last time I saw him and I still have plenty left because I’m not taking it every day anymore.

I pulled myself together, hoping that he’d come back soon so I could just get the hell out of there and do my cry thing. When he came back, he brought samples of an IBS medication. He also told me that he would refill the Ativan but he was also prescribing me an anxiety medication called Buspirone that I had to take twice a day.

“What is that?” I asked warily.

If you’re new to my blog, you might not know that before I got treatment from a trauma-certified therapist, my previous mental healthcare practitioners had loaded me up with various psychiatric medications over the years. Every single time, I had awful side effects from them. It didn’t matter which class they were from, how “tried and true” they were, or how low the dosage. These medications simply make my anxiety and depression worse. I avoid them like the damned plague. (However, they do help lots of people. They just don’t work for my particular condition or body chemistry.)

“It’s an anxiety medication,” he said.

“Yes, but…” I took a deep breath. I really didn’t want to get into my history—my anxiety was already through the roof—but I needed to explain. “Okay. Look. I was sexually assaulted. But I didn’t get the right kind of help at first. I saw lots of different practitioners whose solutions involved just piling antidepressants on me. And I always get very bad side effects from them.”

My hands shook and tears rolled down my cheeks.

“And then I started seeing a trauma-certified therapist, who helped me so much. I got off all the meds and I even stopped taking Ativan. It’s just…” I swallowed hard. “This is going to sound silly, but my anxiety now is coming from everything going on. With the healthcare act…”

He nodded. “Definitely. I understand.”

I exhaled. “Maybe I should just avoid both of these medicines altogether. I’m just very, very wary of them—though I never had any trouble with Ativan.”

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” he said. “I’ll take off the Buspirone and refill the Ativan, but I don’t want you taking it all the time.”

I shook my head. “Oh, no—I understand.” Benzodiazepenes can be highly addictive, and can even be fatal. It’s super important to follow dosage exactly. (Not that it’s never important to follow dosage, but I’m sure you know what I mean.)

“I’m also going to refill your Tramadol, but you need to talk to your rheumatologist and see if he thinks it’s best. I’ll see you in June and we can stop the Tramadol.”

My head spinning, I held up a finger. “I don’t need the Tramadol refill yet,” I said. “If I were to take one every day, I still have about two weeks’ worth left. Can I just call you when I’m ready?”

“Yes,” he said. “I will refill it once more, but you need to talk to your rheumatologist.”

He offered me water and told me I could stay in the exam room for a few minutes to collect myself. He was very kind, but I felt mortified. The panic attack I’d been avoiding all day had basically sideswiped me in front of my doctor—which made me worry that I looked like a hot mess. Anxiety is a liar, so of course I started worrying that it looked like I’d just faked the crying so I could get the medicine. I didn’t want to blubber, dammit. I wanted to be able to calmly discuss my needs. I wanted to be able to discuss my history of trauma and bad experiences with psych meds without panicking, without tears and numb hands.

I scheduled my followup, then went to pick up my prescriptions. Amongst the Ativan and other things was the Buspirone that I’d thought we’d agreed to leave for now. I realize I don’t have to take it, but now I’m worrying that if I don’t, he’ll think I’m just making stuff up.

Today I looked it up. It acts on neurons and serotonin the same way antidepressants do. It’s clear that it’s not a good fit for me. I really don’t want to even try it, because other than the world being on fire, I’m actually in a really good place. Once again, my problem isn’t chemical—it’s trauma.

Last night I had another panic attack. I took an Ativan and, 20 or so minutes later, was calm. I watched The Shining. The tension in my neck was gone. I slept without nightmares.

Of course I still have to practice self-care. I still need to unplug, keep firm work hours, treat myself to good sleep hygiene, etc. I may even need to schedule an appointment with my therapist, although last I knew she was only working one day a week at the practice and that was difficult to coordinate because we only have one car (which Mike primarily uses because he works full-time outside of the home).

You can do everything right and still need help, and that’s totally okay.

Even though asking for Ativan was one of the harder things I’ve done, I’m really glad I did.

#FridayReads: “Knit One, Girl Two,” by Shira Glassman

Shira Glassman is one of those cool people I’ve been following on Twitter for a while but hadn’t read any of their work because I’m a bad colleague. So when she released “Knit One, Girl Two” this week, I one-clicked that bad girl because I can always use more f/f romance in my life and I really want to support my fellow indies.

“Knit One, Girl Two” is a short story. It’s 68 pages long according to Amazon’s Kindle page count thing, so you can definitely read it in one sitting. Me? I savored it over a couple days.

The best word to describe Glassman’s writing is “real.” Her dialogue, especially, is delicious. Each and every exchange felt familiar, like I was hanging out with good friends. The banter between characters often had me laughing out loud, but aside from being funny, it flowed well. This is a story you’ll want to curl up with, a hot cup of tea at your side. Just settle in because it’s warm and inviting—just two queer girls being together and living their lives.

Both of them are artists, too, which makes my heart sing. Clara is a small-batch yarn dyer, and Danielle is a painter. When they cross paths to collaborate on a project, their worlds become so much more vivid. And speaking of worlds, this is set in south Florida, which is one of my favorite places. (Shout out to my real one true love, Deerfield Beach!)

I’m dying for more of Clara and Danielle, and hope to see them in more adventures or even in cameos in other Glassman stories.

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Read Twisted Broken Strings for FREE

If she lets him into her band, she’ll have to let him into her heart.

Koty Jackson wanted to be a rock star, not a singer in the boy band ESX. When he finds out that Jett Costa is looking for a new guitarist and vocalist for her band, Perpetual Smile, Koty is determined to get his demo to her label. But his agent thinks he’s crazy, and when he runs into Jett for a late-night television interview, she tells him that she’ll never allow him in her band.

Jett Costa wasn’t looking for love. After losing the love of her life and the man who helped her build Perpetual Smile from the ground up, all she wants to do is get through their tour in one piece. She never thought she would let a boy band singer in her band—and she also didn’t think she would fall in love with him.

But if things stay the way they are, neither of them will ever get ahead in their careers. Somehow, they’ve got to come to an agreement—or they’ll both fall into obscurity.

Twisted Broken Strings is the PREQUEL to the South of Forever series.

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