The Multiplicity of the Creative Spirit

I will always, on a very visceral level, have a problem with traditional religious restrictions. All of them. I'm not singling anyone out here. This is a problem I have with them universally. Traditional religions all follow the same kind of ideas. There is a Creator or maybe more than one. Stuff was made. This is how you should behave. Yes, exactly like this.

I'm not talking about the general idea of decent behavior. A Creator asking people not to be a pack of assholes to each other is fine. It's all the limited paths part that sets my teeth on edge.

The idea that a Creator would create something and then only want one very narrow version of it is the antithesis of my being. Creation, to me, is not about a perfect thing; it's about the possibilities of what something can become. 

 You give me five filters on GIMP and I'm going to make thousands of variations. Adjusting this and that, tweaking any buttons it has, running the same filter over what I just filtered to see the next level of what will happen.

 If your nature is Creator, then that is your basic drive. You don't settle. You don't pick 'on these two paths will do, but you can only follow one, and only the one your birth gender says is okay.' You delight in the change, in the unexpected, in the unpredictable, and often the best part of that is finding the flaws and seeing how they yield a kind of unexpected newness and beauty to your original design. One you never would have considered on your own.

 Creativity can be very lonely. You long for feedback. You long for engagement. You long for the things that push you in new directions. Even in order, even in structure, you still look for how that can be altered. You still look for the changes. You learn to honor the mistakes. Often, you save them because you know they can be used in some other creative piece later on.

 Because otherwise? You're just playing an unglitched version of Sims. And Sims gets boring after a while, because it's just the same thing over and over again. That isn't life. That isn't creativity. That isn't exploration. That's just very simple programming that will eventually frustrate you because you've seen it before. 

Meet the Fans

 These are the darlings that will keep me alive during the summer.

BEDROOM CREW OF DOOM

1. Grizzled, Ye Elder Fan
Alignment: Lawful Stubborn
Age: Older than the Berlin Wall coming down
Aesthetic: Beige Industrial Despair (the color of Reagan‑era hopelessness)
Traits:
•  Metal cage bent like it survived a bar fight
•  Duct tape scars that tell a story
•  Four speeds, each with a personality
•  Emits the energy of a Vietnam vet who listens to classic rock and doesn’t talk about the war
•  Will outlive you, me, and the concept of summer itself
This fan is not a machine.
This is a survivor.

2. Philip, StandyUppy Fan
Alignment: Chaotic Useless
Age: Toddler
Aesthetic: “I was $19.99 at Walmart and I know it”
Traits:
•  Buttons that work only when the moon is in Pisces
•  Four speeds, all of which are lies
•  Moves air the way a depressed Victorian child blows out birthday candles
•  Will die in two years, but only after inconveniencing you deeply
Philip is the fan equivalent of a coworker who “tries their best” but should not be in charge of anything.

3. Magnolia the Fair
Alignment: Neutral Murderous
Age: 2008, but spiritually 1888
Aesthetic: Looming Gothic Ceiling Apparition
Traits:
•  Two speeds: High and Also High
•  Whirs like a genteel lady fanning herself on a porch
•  Occasionally makes a noise that suggests she is about to drop from the ceiling and slice your jugular
•  Will absolutely kill you one day, but politely
Magnolia is the Blanche DuBois of ceiling fans.
She depends on the kindness of strangers and the structural integrity of two screws.

4. Taz of Metal
Alignment: Chaotic Exhausted
Age: 5 years but has lived 50
Aesthetic: Industrial Wind Demon
Traits:
•  Three speeds: Wonderful, Not Bad, and Kinda Meh
•  Currently stuck on Kinda Meh like a washed‑up rockstar
•  Held together by paper clips like a middle school science project
•  Vibrates like it’s trying to escape this mortal coil
•  Will die this year, and everyone knows it
Taz is the fan equivalent of a biker with emphysema who still insists on doing one last road trip.


THE LIVING ROOM WIND COURT

1. Jazz from Amazon
Alignment: Chaotic Pretty
Age: 2020, but spiritually a 1920s lounge singer
Aesthetic: Dark bronze, seductive, unreliable
Traits:
•  Looks sturdy but is actually held together by hope and a loose blade
•  Three speeds, all of which blow your hair into your eyes like a dramatic music video
•  Requires constant tightening, like a diva needing her corset adjusted
•  Will die this year, but will do it glamorously
Jazz is the fan who says, “I may not work, but I will look stunning while failing.”

2. Roommate’s Box Fan
Alignment: Lawful Disposable
Age: 0–5 years, but emotionally already retired
Aesthetic: “I was made in a factory that does not believe in quality control”
Traits:
•  Light blue metal body, white plastic face
•  Three speeds, all of which are theoretical
•  Falls forward like a fainting goat
•  Cats treat it like a wrestling opponent
•  Will last two more years out of spite
Rommate doesn’t name things he knows will die, which makes this fan the equivalent of a doomed NPC.

3. Trudy
Alignment: Neutral Sturdy
Age: 2 years
Aesthetic: Walmart Gothic
Traits:
•  Black plastic, metal stand, takes up the space of a small refrigerator
•  Three speeds, all of which blow your hair into your eyes from across the room
•  Annoying, but keeps you alive-ish
•  Will last two more years because she’s too stubborn to quit
Trudy is the dependable but irritating aunt who always brings potato salad you didn’t ask for.

4. Unnamed Window Fan
Alignment: Chaotic Temporary
Age: Installed two nights ago
Aesthetic: “I am new, but I will disappoint you soon”
Traits:
•  White plastic, suspiciously clean
•  Two speeds: Mid and Also Mid
•  No reverse, which defeats the entire purpose of a window fan
•  Exists only because the previous window fan died dramatically
•  Will last two years, tops
This fan is the intern who was hired because the last intern quit mid-shift.

5. Ginevra the Beautiful
Alignment: Lawful Elegant
Age: 1 year
Aesthetic: Angel of Ceiling Breezes
Traits:
•  White metal, white wood blades, tulip shades
•  Gorgeous, refined, polite
•  Three speeds, none of which are allowed to be used
•  Wears long metal pull chains like chandelier earrings
•  Too polite to kill anyone
Ginevra is the debutante who was invited to the ball but told she must not dance because the floorboards are old.

Deep Betrayal Masked as Choices: My June 2026 IPSY EXTRA CHOICE DAY

June arrived with heat, humidity, and the faint hope that my IPSY bag might bring me a little joy. Instead, it delivered a full‑scale beauty betrayal. This month’s curation wasn’t just off; it felt like IPSY spun a wheel labeled “Chaos,” “Disregard,” and “Pink Lip Products She Will Hate,” and then proudly mailed me the results.

The no‑choice items alone were enough to make me sigh into the middle distance. First, they sent me a TYS Beauty Lip Butter in Passionfruit—a sheer vibrant pink, the exact kind of shade I consistently rate low and never request. Do you know what I look like in vibrant pink? A woman in her 50s with stupidly bright lips. This would have been annoying on any month, but this was the month they were offering Tower 28 lip products, which makes the choice feel almost spiteful.

Then, as if to double down, they sent a brow gel right after I literally got a brow tint last month. IPSY, my beloved nemesis, if you had looked at my recent products for even five seconds, you would have known I did not need another brow product. You keep a LIST of recent products. Use it.

The choice items didn’t improve things. The first selection forced me to choose between the Dieux Air Angel Peptide Gel Cream and the Glow Recipe Watermelon Dew Drops—two excellent products that should never have been pitted against each other. It felt like choosing between two kittens. I picked Dieux, but I resented having to choose at all.

Then came the true betrayal: the second choice group. IPSY lumped together the Rare Beauty blush, the Rodial drops, the Tower 28 Lip Jelly, and the Tower 28 LipSoftie. All in one group. This wasn’t a choice; it was psychological warfare. I knew they would put both Tower 28s together, but I didn’t expect them to also throw Rare Beauty into the same pit like a sacrificial lamb. My soul left my body. I ended up choosing the LipSoftie because my lips are a desert wasteland in summer and because I was already being punished with that Passionfruit Lip Butter. I wanted that blush too. I was looking forward to having that blush. 

By the time I reached the final choice group, I was too tired to be angry. My options were a Dew of the Gods cleanser, the Moonslice 1980s drag‑queen palette I refuse to let haunt my home, or face masks. FACE MASKS! REALLY? Really. I chose the cleanser because it was the only item that didn’t feel like a dare. At that point, I was simply trying to survive the experience.

And then, as the final insult, I tried to contact customer service. I normally do not do this. As a middle-aged woman, one is always very hesitant to contact customer services as to not appear a Karen. Ironically, the only ones who don't worry about this are the True Karens.

Once upon a time, IPSY had a simple “Contact Support” button.

Now they have GlamBot—a sparkly pink AI creature with long fake eyelashes who guards the gates like a glitter‑covered Cerberus. You ask for help, and GlamBot smiles, blinks slowly, and offers irrelevant articles. Then asks you for information that should be already accessed as you're doing this from your profile that you are logged into.

Eventually, after enough pleading, it tells you to “submit a ticket,” which is the modern equivalent of tossing a message in a bottle into the ocean. There is no email. There is no direct contact. There is only the Ticket Portal of Mild Desperation. I ended up sending my complaint to both Instagram and Facebook because IPSY has made contacting them a side quest.

So that was June IPSY: poorly curated, profile‑ignorant, choice‑group chaotic, and wrapped in a customer service maze guarded by a sparkly robot. I am tired. I am moisturized (thanks, Dieux). I am lip‑buttered against my will. And I sincerely hope July is kinder.

Though at this point, I'm considering just quitting completely. 

The Six Commandments of the Air Conditioner

 Hey! Welcome to June! As we are headed into the hell months, I thought I would share the hostage situation I happen to be in with my air conditioning. 

The Gospel of the Ancient Window Unit AC

1. “It shall not awaken until the land reaches 90 degrees.”

This is not a temperature threshold.
This is a summoning requirement.
At 89 degrees, you suffer.
At 90, the fridges begin to mutter ancient curses, and only then does the AC stir in its cave.
If it's 88 and the humidity is over 60, your life is basically hell.

2. “Its mercy is not for you.”

You are but a mortal.
Human suffering is a natural state. 
The AC serves only the Cold Boxes, the sacred guardians of milk and leftovers.
Machine suffering is not a good idea.
You are collateral.
Your suffering does not alter the House.

3. “You will feel the lack of mercy.”

This is the part of the scripture written in sweat.
And you do. You know, when it comes to the AC, you're just a dog getting crumbs.
The summer heat is there to humble you.

4. “It is old and may perish at any moment.”

This AC is a war veteran.
It has seen things.
It has fought summers that would break lesser machines.
Every time it turns on, it’s rolling a D20 for survival.
And you know this.

5. “The Cycle: 45 minutes on, 45 minutes off.”

This is not a schedule.
This is a breathing pattern.
When the AC draws in its silent breath, you will suffer.
When the AC exhales, you will find relief.
But only then. And there will be no compromises.
If it runs longer, it screams.
If it rests longer, you scream.
But your screaming doesn't matter.

6. “At 10 PM, the AC sleeps.”

And so begins the Night of Suffering.
The air becomes thick.
The fans become your only allies.
You lie in bed like a Tennessee Williams tragic heroine, praying for a breeze.
You listen to the whining of the fans and pray they don't go out.