Blog Dis

You may have asked yourself, from time to time, "for crying out loud, does this woman ever stop with her profundity and opinions?"

I've asked myself this question, too, and over the weekend I decided it was high-time that this kitty-kat took a vacation from blogging on X, and to place more emphasis on writing my eighth novel. So, dearest and most interested readers, for the next couple of weeks, I'm taking a wee hiatus and shall check in from time to time to see if there are any new friend requests and to answer those DMs that I've encouraged, rather than to answer DMs that I haven't initiated, to which I simply ignore regardless because they junk up my Inbox.

I will continue to re-post and post graffiti images, plus kitty videos, naturally, as well as to air my views on those subjects that would fall in the contentious category. I don't want to eliminate all of my good fun.

To step back from blogging is a welcome thing. The fermentation of ideas will have time alone for the compound ground to mulch its way to more fertile earth. The worms in my head will gobble up and help to decompose any superfluous thoughts, thereby ensuring that when I return the ideas will be fresh and invigorating. I've developed quite a liking for blogging, much to my own surprise, despite what some persons might think that nobody reads any more. This couldn't be further from the truth, given the book sales across the world, with paperbacks outstripping eBooks, and both mediums of entertainment still claiming a healthy price-share of global dollars. Plus, there are podcasts aplenty and I intend to also lollygag, while taking time to watch some.

I'm not adverse to the scrutiny of my own blogs, and I realize that some of my posts may have come across as peevish in tone, that is to say, argumentative. I try to remain realistic and therefore I must acknowledge that I've been a tad negative toward the world at large, given how it feels like the billionaires on this planet are pulling everyone's strings, and we are their puppets. One recent conversation with an Executive in the firm where I work had mentioned how they are against the movement toward formally implementing digital ID in future. It's already happening in the United Kingdom, and they predict it'll sweep across Europe, with North America quickly following suit.

For the record, and since the day of your birth, you've been tracked, every single step of the way — your birth certificate, and for those who are baptized, as well as through your school records of enrollment, your vaccination records, your health and dental records (each time you went to the doctor or saw a dentist), and then when you become an adult and can apply for a driver's licence, and eventually a passport, to include a work VISA, or a VISA to enter some countries, and don't forget banking institutions each and every time you've borrowed money, or applied for a credit card. The list of the institutions that continue to track you is insane. So, for me, the idea of adopting a digital ID is merely viewed as a form of streamlining, to file every piece of ID into one form of identification. The Executive, about whom I just spoke, had also relayed to me her discomfort when passing through Heathrow Airport that she had no choice but to submit to a full body scan, high-end digital identification. Makes me wonder just where these skeletal images are being stored.

Will we all be happy with digital ID? Maybe. More than likely no, and yet, given where I live in the country of Canada, I'm very much aware of our Canadian Security and Intelligence Service (CSIS) which has a complete file on all of us, from the time of my birth. And each time any one of us steps outside our homes, we are typically caught on camera a minimum of half a dozen times, doesn't matter whether we're entering a department store, or our condos or apartment buildings, like mine.

So when I take a break from the world, a small hiatus, if you will, I shall only be dropping out of society while I remain indoors over the holidays. It's highly unlikely that my online social network activity will desist entirely, across all platforms. I will read, listen to music, take chilly walks, as well as binge an excellent series over the holidays, to help me to decompress. I can assure you that I will not worry about digital ID... Realistically I'll be worried more about my waistline.

When I return, I may begin with a new blog post on the year 2025 and what stood out for me. Reflection is a form of intellect. Reflection is time well spent to mull over ideas before they are launched.

So to you, your family and friends, may you enjoy a superlative holiday season. Be good to yourself, and don't spend like a drunken sailor on Boxing Day.

Wish me luck and blog with you soon. Oh, and if you're of the mind, here's the page to my author site where every blog I've written in the last two years is posted: https://patriciakmccarthy.com/allposts/

Ho! Ho! Ho!

I am the river of madness
scavenged by crows
perched as still as blades of yellow grass.
There can be no rescue
from the collective soul.

I am the coldness,
for my lineage came
from sharpened blades
cutting open the frozen shores
to dislodge everyone from their place.

My age is the wisdom
of human beings,
eternally gorging.
How we adore the pages of violence,
our terror and disease.

I am the agony of defeat
stained with tears
glistening on dead leaves.
When first I feared the most terrible
the greater sick became my greed.

I am the darkness
of the hollow branches of disbelief.
Our desire is never complete:
more this, more that, more of everything.
There can be no retreat.

My age is the wind in front of me
speaking hauntingly of tomorrow.
Yet I have promised my love to Hope,
to embrace peace
each night I take sleep.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Here I go again... that dreaded insomnia of mine strikes with ferocity, when I least expect it, and last night's sleep was no exception. I had hardly slept at all, and when I did, I dreamed the dreams that only a sleep-deprived brain could conjure.


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X isn't only over-run with bots but also with Red Pill profiles, those whose entire platform is centered on defamation, 100% in the direction of women. A Red Pill poster is about division, rather than to guide young men on how to build the kind of life they want with a partner. When you trash all women, in such a sad and general way, you're dealing with a warped perspective, a rage-farmer, not an inspirational leader.

Pity that some build a following on defamation.


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Will you forsake yourself,
to sinful pleasure?
Grant me, first,
one wish.

That I may be the reflection of
your sensual want.
That I may rise in flame,
from violet to rose.

And take from you,
sweet sigh and repose.
In your youthful body,
I grow, from out of visible scars,

Now barely there.
In your graceful touch,
I give to you my breath,
my willing flesh.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Writers make some of the best observers. It's our job to observe, assess, interpret and recall for later use when penning that next great ditty of assimilated words. When I had two little fur-balls living with me full-time, who've long crossed over to the rainbow bridge, I noticed two distinct personality types. My kitties might just have well served as the models for comparison between the human male and female. They were no different from one another, because they were kitties, and yet they were so common in their female and male approach to living.


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The day will come, like all events that carry with them a sense of trepidation, when you'll have to make the emotional commitment and stick your neck on the line. I'm referring to the promotion of yourself and your skills, to include your resume, s snapshot that spells out to potential employers how you're the cat's meow, and why any organization would be a fool not to hire you.


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Go on, hate me.
Hate me for my lacerating tongue,
my dirty mouth,
spewing vulgar words.

Tell me I am crass and boorish,
and I might be prone to say,
with a look of dismay,
that I am, that I am.

Doesn’t he love it, though?
I should think, with a wink,
getting his horn blown,
in the morning,

is by far his preferred way to go.
He’s such a pussycat, after that.
He cares less about my filthy talk,
and lascivious ways.

Go on, go ahead,
and plunder me.
Tear off my clothes
and have your way.

I'm willing to commit,
the perfect crime with you,
any place, any time.
Bless you, for being mine.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

It has begun in earnest. It is well upon us, underneath us, bearing over top, surrounding us all around, from the sides to the tops, from the dregs of the streets, coming into the stores — Christmas marketing, and chocolate season has officially descended. We are now into the month of December, the month of merriment and all things sparkly. I've shored up my defences and hidden my wallet, and my VISA card is locked inside a safe. I venture out of home with a calm demeanor, confident that I'll be able to resist all varieties of chocolate circling my wagons like raging marauders with pointy spears.


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Hypothetical: There's this time machine, and it works, and only you have access to it, and maybe some of your dearest friends and family but surely not your beer-drinking buddies after they've had one too many, while catching the ball game. You may enter the time machine at your leisure, and choose the year you want to return to but you must accept that you cannot go to the future, given that the future supposedly doesn't yet exist.

Or, does the future already exist?


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Purge destructive thoughts
by writing on paper
your pent-up anger.

Sleep a life complete
in peace, waking
only at leisure.

Miserable bitch!
Stop being so cold toward yourself,
sympathizing with your aggression.

Wanting to die,
wanting to wander for a year
until underarm hair grows to the floor.

Pain. Pain. Go away.
Leave this belly to sweeter days.
Dream of sleep. Sleep not.

Lose yourself to anxiety.
while the blood of womanhood
has bloated your sensitivity.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy