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💰 Money Talks Because Feelings Can’t 

Some people never learned how to speak the language of emotion.

So they speak in money.

Not because they’re greedy — but because that’s where they feel safe. Emotions are messy. Money is clean, quantifiable, controllable. If you can put a number on it, you don’t have to sit in it.

You’ll hear it in conversations that should’ve been about love or pain or grief — suddenly rerouted into stories of work, hustle, property, bank accounts, “success.”

And if you dig deeper, you realize it’s not just about pride.

It’s fear.

Somewhere along the line, feelings weren’t safe. Vulnerability got punished. So they built walls with dollar bills and called it wisdom. They offer you lectures instead of listening. Gifts instead of presence. They confuse providing with connecting.

But here’s the truth:

Money never held anyone through a breakdown.
Money never sat in silence with someone who lost their way.
Money never said, “I’m proud of you,” with tears in its eyes.

If you’ve ever been the one who feels deeply, trying to talk to someone stuck in the currency of survival — you know the heartbreak. You know what it’s like to offer your truth and get silence. To bleed honesty and get handed a budget sheet.

It makes you question your worth.
But don’t.

Because what you have is something money can’t buy:

Resilience. Soul. Integrity. Connection.
The kind of currency that lives in scars, not spreadsheets.

So if someone keeps handing you dollar signs when you’re reaching for understanding, don’t internalize that.

They’re not bad — just unequipped.

And you?
You’re speaking a higher language.


👣 Let’s Keep This Music Going:

If this hit home and you want more stories, raw guitar talk, and WTF moments from the road — jump on the email list. 

Silent Battles: Why Ovarian Cancer Needs a Voice 

In honor of a brave friend — identity kept anonymous by request


🚺 A Brave Friend, Anonymously Shared

A friend of mine — someone I care about deeply — is currently fighting the hardest battle of her life. Out of respect, I’m keeping her identity anonymous. But I need you to know this: she is brave, strong, and has chosen to share parts of her story publicly in hopes of helping others.

A little over a year ago, she was simply living — enjoying life from what I could see. Then came the sudden shift: doctors, chemo, surgery. She’s now enduring large doses of chemotherapy and recovering from major surgery to remove tumors entangled with vital organs.

And the most terrifying part? There was no test to catch this early.


⚠️ The “Silent Killer”: Invisible, Until It’s Too Late

There is currently no routine screening for ovarian cancer in women without high genetic risk. No pap test. No simple bloodwork. That means the disease is often caught after it’s already spread — when treatment becomes harder, and survival odds drop.The early signs — feeling full after small meals, pain during or after sex, and general pelvic discomfort — are often misdiagnosed as digestive issues or ignored by doctors. ALK Positive


📉 Survival Stats — What the Numbers Show

Localized (early-stage): ~ 92% 5-year survival

Distant spread: ~ 32%

Yet only around 20% of ovarian cancers are caught early — most are found when it’s already dangerous. You and Ovarian Cancer+10Verywell Health+10SELF+10


🧩 Why This Deserves Urgent Change

No early detection = fewer survival opportunities

Symptoms are vague and misdiagnosed — women need to be heard and tested promptly

Education & funding gaps let these issues persist


🎓 Educational & Support Resources

National Ovarian Cancer Coalition (NOCC)
Offers guides, symptom tools, peer support and animated videos
Cancer.orgSELF+5ovarian.org+5ovarian.org+5

Foundation for Women’s Cancer
Downloadable fact sheets, patient guides, CA‑125 info
ACOG+15foundationforwomenscancer.org+15rogelcancercenter.org+15

Project Hope for Ovarian Cancer
Resources on diagnosis, testing, recommended questions for doctors
 

ACOG eModule
Free online course for clinicians on early diagnosis and prevention
Wikipedia+8ACOG+8SELF+8

YouAndOvarianCancer.com
Interactive expert videos and slideshows for patients and caregivers
You and Ovarian Cancer


🏛️ Advocacy: How You Can Make A Difference

Find your U.S. Representative — enter your ZIP at:

Find Your Representative (House.gov) AACR+3U.S. House of Representatives+3League of Conservation Voters+3

Congressional support guides:

Learn how to call and speak with staff to push for funding & awareness bills
League of Conservation Voters

Letter templates:

Advocacy letter examples (e.g., from ASBMB) help you write persuasive messages to policymakers
asbmb.org

Key pieces of legislation to ask about:

Ovarian Cancer Awareness Act

Multi-Cancer Early Detection Act

Diane Powis Ovarian Cancer Testing Access Act


💌 What You Can Do Today

Share this post — awareness is powerful

Contact your Rep/Senators — ask them to support ovarian cancer early detection and awareness funding

Post about symptoms — alert your networks: bloating, pelvic pain, post-sex pain, feeling full fast — don’t ignore any of it

Encourage professional education — share resources like ACOG’s eModule with friends in healthcare


🌟 Final Thoughts

My friend didn’t choose this battle. But she’s facing it with courage — and using her voice to help others. Let’s honor her by turning this silent struggle into a visible cause. Listen, act, and speak up now.


🗣️ Next Steps

"Fuck This Shit" Part 2 The Fall That Woke Me Up 

"Wake up and get out," said the voice.

Of all the years I’ve done stupid shit, that one caught me off guard. I was surprised — but deep down, it still felt like another new low. “Give me a few minutes to get my shit,” I told him. What hurt the most, looking back, is that this guy and I were on good terms. That couldn’t have been easy for him to do.

I grabbed my guitar and three bags filled with whatever was left of my life.

I don’t remember leaving the hotel I was staying at. What I do remember is standing at the top of the brick staircase, losing my balance, and putting my hand out to catch myself. Instead, I broke my left wrist in three places.

My head hit the pavement. I blacked out. Then I came to.

There was a guy standing over me — thick accent, real presence. “You okay? I saw everything.” I rolled to my back. “Can you call for help?” I asked. “I did,” he said, “but they ain't coming.”

He stuck around anyway. We talked about a bunch of things I don’t even remember. He offered me a Vicodin. I gave him ten bucks and said, “Yeah, man. Thanks.” That’s where I was at.

Eventually, the ambulance showed up. I was wiggling to help them move me to the stretcher when one of the paramedics looked into my eyes and froze. “Don’t move,” he said. “Your pupils aren’t matching. Looks like you’ve got a concussion.”

Next thing I know, they’re in the ambulance telling me they need to cut my clothes off. I begged them not to — my favorite t-shirt, a thin hoodie that my close friends got me for Christmas. “We don’t have a choice,” one of them said. “We don’t know what else is wrong with you.”

They cut them off.

I woke up in Highland Hospital — Oakland’s battlefield ER. It's the kind of place that police and firefighters specify in their contracts: “If I get shot, take me to Highland.” These doctors know trauma. They’ve seen more bullet wounds than textbooks.

While I was there, a nurse came in to stick a needle in my hand. I begged her not to. I hate needles — especially in the top of my hand. She told me there was no other way. It brought back memories of childhood surgeries, of begging doctors not to poke me there.

They gave me fentanyl.

I didn’t enjoy it, but it was bizarre. Not what I expected. Just… strange.

Then Barbara came in.

“Hi, I’m Barbara, and I’m here to reset your arm.”

At that point, she could’ve shoved a gorilla up my ass and I wouldn’t have cared. I was so high. They hoisted my broken arm onto some contraption above my bed. “Okay,” Barbara and her assistant said, “here we go.”

They moved it three or four times. I screamed. Even on fentanyl, I was losing it. The pain was inhuman. When it was done, I felt a little better — physically.

The doctor came in. “You smashed your wrist in three places,” he said.

I wasn’t even thinking about guitar.

All I could think was: Where the fuck am I going to live now?

They didn’t operate. They stitched me up and sent me to a place in Oakland that used to be a hotel. Now it was low-income housing for people with medical conditions.

I stayed there three weeks. Then I went to rehab……………again.