INTJ: Plan an Awesome Game-night

Itemized lists, flow charts, and fallback systems for the fallback system – INTJs have a bit of reputation when it comes to lists.

INTJ's also have a bit of a reputation for 'evil genius' moments. I'm no Walter White, but one Christmas I bought that computer game my brother had written Santa for, unsealed it and stuffed the box full of new socks, then put the disk in a flat case with the rest of the sock package, then 'fixed' the wrapping on both gifts, put Daniel's name on the tags and waited gleefully for Christmas morning.

It shouldn't surprise anyone that I offered to run a Dungeons and Dragons game for some friends. It plays to my strengths.

As the Game Master, I basically do the job of a video game system and the narrator. I manage everything but the player's characters. That means lists - bad guys, descriptions, even the math that controls how deep a sword cuts.

I've played D&D on and off for some year. However, I'd never GM'd before. It's a huge time commitment. I spent over 15 hours setting up content and another 5 researching what NOT to do. I had brand new players. If they didn't come back, there was no game.

Luckily, there are some excellent GM help guides out there. I skimmed wikis and blogs then hit gold - the DMLair channel. It was binge worthy.

Luke Hart is a hilarious YouTube blogger with matter of fact solutions for derailed plots, slow combat, and problem players. Even better, most of it was Basic Adulting Skills -talk things out, be honest about your expectations, etc. I felt confident this would work

Forearmed with new knowledge, I spent the afternoon before the game double checking my kit. I had my reference sheets, my resource websites, and plenty of extra dice and paper. I also drafted Kid Brother into helping get the house ready. That's when inspiration for my own 'GM Musts' hit.

See, despite all the blogs on how to set up a game, everyone has missed an important topic. How to HOST a game.

I've had some wonderful sessions with wonderful players. However, I've had to leave 3 out of 5 groups because of …environmental factors. Basically the site was a sty, and I already have poor health.

I'm not going to share my horror stories. However, the every item on this list is the result of life experience – not humorous overthinking.

GM Must Haves

Clean Table (D&D is a table-top roleplaying game. You could play on the floor but not everyone is a young preteen anymore.)

Good Chairs (That adjective there is important.)

Clean Floor (Dice bounce... generally off the table. Ergo, keep your floors swept.)

Potable Water (Safe drinking water should be basic 'first-world' hospitality and on that note...)

Clean Toilet with A Wash Station. (This isn't an 'Female Gamer Woo-ing' tip. Part of hospitality is making sure your guests are safe.)

Animal Control, Domestic and Other (Okay, this story I CAN tell you. Once upon a summer's night, I brought a candle jar to the session. The guys start laughing, “Going for immersion are we?” and “What fragrance is that?” In perfect deadpan, I said, “Citronella.”)

Running D&D isn't just a matter of knowing the game and finding victims... erhm players. You have to keep things more fun than frustrating. A relaxing space will help.
When my 'session zero' rolled around, my prep work total had a new entry: 2 hours housekeeping. The public rooms were clean, my pets fed and the thermostats set for company. Kid Brother had even made pizza!

Did I over do it? Go into an INTJ prep'er fugue? Nope.

On our first night, I spent two-thirds of the session playing 'musical chairs' with character sheets because NO ONE had read the source material. Can you imagine how bad things could have gotten? We geeks are like children. Bored is dangerous enough. Add thirsty or hungry and there will be tears.

The game? You wanna know about the game? Well, one of the characters picked a sealed scroll off the streets and brought it to the guild mess hall. They opened it... Didn't research the seal, or check for magic.

Three Words: Magical Glitter Bomb. These rookies will learn >XD

NOT Overthinking: Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is about food. Full stop.

….yes, it's actually that simple. When you peel back all those cutesie pilgrim myths, ignore decades of aggressive add campaigns from the turkey farmers, and put the 'Invading Colonizer Vs. Protestant Refugees' argument on hold, Thanksgiving is about food.

Food is a simple, trivial word. It's not a trivial matter.

Growing up, I never had to skip a meal. Unfortunately, I've still had experience with hunger. Did you know that if don't eat the right things, you can starve on a full stomach? No, I'm kidding. It's not a 'fat rich people problem.' There's more than one way to go hungry.

On my mother's side of the family, there's the maddening battle with blood-sugar. My late father dealt with chronic malabsorption issues after his colon was removed. I personally have lovely gene mutation that stunts my Vitamin B conversion (my food allergies are just the f-you cherry on this mess). Having something to eat isn't the same as having food.

Creating a meal that feeds your needs takes mindfulness. Feeding other people... that's a tall order.

My first big holiday after a peanut-triggered-ambulance ride was eye-opening. In middle-class America, feeding people is a dying art. Thanksgiving is a time to show off that family recipe or order a luxury cut of meat. My newly restricted diet made waves.

Out of a six dish spread, plus desserts, there wasn't much to eat. I think I had something from the relish tray and meat, no gravy. It was awkward for me and the cooks. Thanksgiving is a feast. What does it say when one person is sighing wistfully at everybody else's plates?

I realized 'sharing a meal' isn't just eating in the same building. Food is social bonding. Hunger is divisive. Getting left out of the group while you're hungry.... well, fights have started for less.

Luckily, my family cares about each other more than having a postcard perfect meal. We shuffled the menu a bit. I still can't eat every dish, but I have options. I have food – I'm not left behind.

Does my aunt still get frustrated with me triple checking her recipes cards? Yes. Do my crazy cousins still talk about football and that trophy buck they hope to bag this year? Yes. Do I still get nosy questions about my life choices? Yes. Thanksgiving is not stress free.

However, I just take a deep breath and remember the true core of any harvest celebration. It's taking a moment to stop and say, “Thank God! Nobody has to starve to death this year!”

Thanksgiving is about the food.

Edited 2020 - Cause I later read Smithsonian: Myths of Thanksgiving and I don't want my Cherokee 'Cousin' giving me that look for not double checking my prose.

Shut up and Dance

The Selby family traditions don't include a 'coming of age' ceremony - mostly because none of us kids liked being the center of a big fuss. We DO celebrate the yearly birthdays and some of the citizenship milestones. However, was typically low key. My 'sweet-sixteen' was a small lunch with friends/family. (Then the rest of the day to myself reading the books they'd gifted me.)

A quinceañera is about as opposite from a small lunch as you can get. There's a church service, dancing, a 'shoeing' ceremony, more dancing, and a dress code. It's a production on par with a wedding.

Productions and I have never mixed well - too many migraine triggers. Yet, through a weird series of twists, October I found myself waltzing to "El Mundo Ideal" in front of a whole lot of people. 

I wasn't just a wallflower guest. I was part of a quinceañera court.

It started innocently enough. The young lady, Ansleymarie, needed another chamberlain and asked if my younger brother Daniel would help. He accepted.

Cue first twist. While Kid Brother is a friendly, if snarky, guy, he is not a licensed driver or a dancer. That was simple enough to fix. The birthday girl's mother would provide dance lessons and I'd drive him. (I didn't mind. I could scout the church and gym for a place to hide in case of migraines.)

The second twist happened on the day before the first dance lesson. The birthday girl's best friend had been pulled out by her parents. My phone buzzed with a heartfelt plea from Ansleymarie's mother. I was already coming up, would I please join the court?

I blame what happened next on emotional transfer. When I got the text, I was musing about a quinceañera gift. I wanted it to be meaningful, special. I wanted to do something she would like.

I said yes.

In all fairness, the original text suggested that I would just have to dance one short song, as my brother's partner. I'd be another face in the crowd. I could do my wallflower thing, right?

It only took one dance lesson to burst that bubble.

The reason there was only one waltz was that there wasn't enough dancers for anything else. Half the court had backed out. There would be three couples in this. I'd be to the right of the birthday girl, wearing a high-lo lavender dress, in front of a lot of strangers , with no trilby for protection

Actually learning to box-step was the easy part. Once Kid Brother and I stopped moved like we were in a Tae-Kwan-Do demo, we had a pretty good sense of rhythm. We were starting to relax.

Unfortunately, the birthday girl and her snarky brother partner didn't have a good sense of rhythm. They also seemed to be trying to maim each other. Half-way through the lesson, I suggested we switch partners. The strong dancers could help the weaker ones.

It worked. However, the switch made permanent. My comfort zone was fading fast. Naively, I hoped that the third couple would add some buffer to this ordeal.

No, just no. If anything the classes got more stressful. We added another snarky male to the mix.

I'm not a thick-skinned person. I also have very good hearing (I could hear one of the dancer's artificial heart valve) When the people around me gripe and pick at each other, I can't ignore it as background noise.

This group spend as much time griping about the music, each other, and the mother's teaching ability as they did actually practicing. That third couple's lady actually got into a ten minute debate about wanting to restructure the whole routine because she 'couldn't do if if I don't lead.' You could almost see the steam coming out of the mother's ears.

All the bickering wore on me. I was sick of all this yammering. I was sick of the snarky bros going after each other. I was also thoroughly fed up with the smell of tobacco and my new partner's spittoon. (While half the class took smoke breaks, I was spending quality time with the gym's punching bag.)

Finally, practice was done. It was time for the real event.

My plan was for the setup was simple - treat the coordinating mother like 'Queen of the Universe.' It didn't matter if she contradicted herself. Her word was law. Kid Brother wholeheartedly agreed with this.

We put on our formal clothes and formal manners... then the penultimate twist to this story hit.

Despite behind middle-class, my family's cultural magpie horde includes the classic 'Yes sir, No sir, Right away sir,” Jeeves playbook. It's not a snob thing. The older etiquette shifts attention from you as a person to the guests and the honoree.

This worked wonderfully for me. My brother... not so much.

As I was running around the building, fetching things for the other ladies, the snark war went nuclear.

Every time I went by the entrance, the men were either on smoke break, out of sight of the guests or threatening to start a actually fight. While Kid Brother could give as good as he got, my big sister instincts were screaming. Finally, as I was hunting down an AWOL petticoat, I overheard one nasty comment too many, “I'll snap your neck.”

One of the worst elements of being a autistic adult is memory cascade. Those words and that tone sent me hurling down memory-lane. A dozen unpleasant leftovers bit me in the feelings.

I was stressed, fighting a migraine, and had no chance of holding all that inside. I was a sniffling, watered-eyed mess in the dressing area. The dance was about to start! There was no hiding my state. The whole quinceañera court knew something was wrong.

As I frantically tried to pull myself together, my wonderful kid brother, Daniel, pulled off a brilliant bit of social engineering, “We made my sister cry. Get it together or I will punch you so hard that {censored}.”

I was done with this. I faked a smiled, gripped my partner by the elbow, and stepped onto the gym floor. I was going to dance and nothing short of the building catching fire would stop me.

...the rest of the night went off without a hitch. Everyone waltzed in sync, the guys did this amazing routine with scarfs, and the quinceañera girl looked like a Disney princess. My embarrassment/ panic attack waited until I was at home in my own room.

The long twisty ordeal was done. I could go hide, sleep off the migraine, and then redon my hat.

In hindsight, I should have remembered on of my family's  proverbs.

“Big events are like sausage. Everyone enjoys them, but only if you don't know exactly what went into them.”

The Purpose of Sadness

I have to know the 'why' behind things – not just the 'how.'

This sort of questioning is common for my brand of introversion. (It's also why INTJ's get labels like Mastermind and Architect.) Event B happened because of event A, but why did that relationship exist in the first place? What was it's purpose?

What's obvious for many people, doesn't always click for me. My journeys to have things make sense often take the long way around.

Once upon a RPG, my friends and I were talking about character design, particularly how to build backstory for D&D characters. Some people just play the same 'person' but with a different face and skills. Others draft up a fifteen page genealogy/biography. Some have a pool of personalities that pick from whenever they build a new warrior. Still others play... whatever lets them max their dice pool?

Anyhow, one of the guys explained that to make a functional insane character he would just tweak one of their basic emotional drives. (Sane people don't repeatedly run into goblin lairs.)

“Oh, you mean Mad, Bad, Sad, Glad?” I piped up, seeing where this is going.

“Basically,” he said. “I either exaggerate one or remove it.” Then went on to explain how each of this current builds were changed. A was always Mad and was aggressive and overly defensive when challenged. B never felt Bad and so had no sense of guilt or respect for authority.

“What I haven figured out yet is how someone with no sense of Sad would play,” he admitted. He wasn't completely sure what the 'sad' response was for.

Come to think of it, I wasn't sure either. The game night rolled along, but that question settled in the back of my mind. What is the purpose of Sad?

The feelings of Sad and I have a complicated history. My childhood had plenty of emotional upsets. Grief is no stranger to me. Plus, I've dealt with depression since my teen-years.

My health issues play merry-hob with my bio-chemistry. No amount of comedy, purring cats or good food will offset the crash from a three hour migraine. The glands can not make happy juice, period. 😫

To make things yet more complicated, I viewed my Sad like a reoccurring glitch. You medicate and make yourself move. I'd years of people 'telling' me Sad was a dumb response.

Like most autistic children, I had the misfortune of getting bullied, by both children and adults. Like most children, I got dangerous advice like 'just quit reacting and they'll go away,' 'oh, you're just too sensitive,' and 'life's not fair. just deal with it.' Acting Sad was disruptive and selfish.

Plus, what were sad responses actually good for? Your ancient hunter/gather hominid didn't have wiggle room for bad reflexes. Mad gives your extra energy to fight or run. Bad helps you remember your mistake and avoid repeats. Glad is the body's way of say 'Do it again! Do it again!” Sad, you just... make eyewash? (Once you're weaned, crying loudly attracts curious predators as often as help.)

The purpose of Sad didn't make sense. So naturally, I keep revisiting this puzzle every time my emotions were on the down swing. When I'm Sad, I am not just off my game. I'm bone-achingly weary. Why does my brain have this setting?

The 'Eureka!' moment was a long time in coming. It required a couple of years of therapy and an odd series of Twitter conversations. (That's another story😏).

Sad is like muscle soreness. It's a warning and healing system.

When you stress or, in my frequent case, sprain a muscle, it hurts for days. However, pain is not a commentary on your fitness level and life choices. Pain tells you something is damaged and needs attention.

There's swelling, stiffness, bruises and you just can't preform at your original level even if you try to push through. It's annoying. It limits you. ...and it's actually a good thing?

The purpose of pain is keep you from stacking more damage. Recovery isn't a passive activity. You need good food, rest, and plan to re-balance most of you commitments. (I've rolled an ankle right before Christmas. Things got complicated, quickly.)

Sad acts as a limiter. Disappointment, grief, the 'Blues,' all of them are messages that there's mental or even physical strain. It's a sign to cutback on stressful and risky ventures. Sad is supposed to make you slow down.

So what did this revelation mean for me personally? Well going back to that rolled ankle, cutting corners during recovery is NOT wise. You can't just pop an aspirin and limp through your workout routine. Argo, medicating a flare-up of depression and forcing high productivity isn't wise either.

This is a hard truth to swallow. I'm not feeling Sad all the time because I'm 'too sensitive' or 'lack drive.' I'm still feeling Sad because my recovery isn't done.

The purpose of Sad isn't to make me look pathetic enough for others to decide to help, or target for a quick snack. The purpose of Sad is to make me rest and take care of myself.

(😣 Yes, I felt like face-palming when it finally clicked. This is one of my primary emotions and it took YEARS to figure out what it was for.😣)

Overthinking: In Case of Monsters

Overthinkers get a lot of flack for overthinking, generally by non-overthinkers. Most of the rhetoric boils down to, “Overthinking leads to anxiety, less happiness, and 'useless' trains of thought. Shape up and quit making the rest of us uncomfortable.” I however believe overthinking not useless. 

When I overthink, I'm trying to figure out what to do about something that's already made me anxious. It is soothing to have a plan.

When I was child, I knew that monsters were make-believe. That didn't stop me from having a nightmare about whatever I saw on T.V. It didn't matter if it was a Scooby-Doo villain or a stop-action puppet of a cyclops. In the circuits of my sleeping brain, they got nastier, smarter and hunted me and my family through my home. (Also, my dream-self seemed have the critical thinking skills of a horror movie extra.)

Needless to say, preteen Loren would deeply regret thumbing through the library's folktales anthologies - vampires, fey, and werewolves, oh my. Nightmares gained a new level of 'ick' when I was the one bewitched into hunting my family. 

The worst bit about childhood nightmares is that after a while you dread bedtime. It's  not complicated logic. Bad stuff happens when you fall asleep. You want to avoid bad stuff. Unfortunately, thinking about this while laying in bed is the equivalent of daring yourself not to think about pink elephants. You get yet more nightmares.

The adults in my life saw I was suffering and tried to help. The most common advice was the lucid dreamer trick. “It's your dream. You should be able to control it.” Unfortunately, my brain never has done things the easy way. (Most children would just turn the werewolf into a puppy or summon Superman to come and drop kick the monster into the sun.)

I'm not quiet sure how it happened, but I would eventually find a way to effect the dreams. If monsters were coming into my house, I would make it a war of attrition. 

Superpowers and magic swords tended to fade in and out of reach, but the family kitchen always had counterpart in those chased-through-the-house dreams. There was garlic in the spice rack, plated silverware in the sideboard, and a good heavy rolling pin in the drawer. I was now armed and angry.

Unfortunately, having a weapon doesn't turn you into Tiffany Aching or Kevin McCallister. Most of the the time, I still ended up monster chow. I'd trip or dodge left when I should have gone right. When I woke up, I kept track of 'dumb things that didn't work.'

In the case of werewolf bites, hiding the bite or cutting the infected limb off was a dumb move. Running out into the park to handle it yourself was a also dumb move. Trying to get help from unreasonable dream-adults was a dumb move. (It seemed only my parents were smart enough to know the difference between a real emergency and playing make-believe.)

I also had mental tally of things that worked. Werewolves didn't survive decapitation, being set on fire, and other violent solutions. I expanded into vampires (like werewolves but with garlic), evil witches (climb a tree where they can't see you and then drop something heavy on them), and even ghosts (get a high powered vacuum or the garage fan.)

While I never got around to writing down a formal 'In Case of' list, just having a Plan helped. I'd been through storm watches and building evacuations and had learned standing around clueless just made things scarier. 

The next logical step was to start planning things out before bedtime. When I heard about something scary, I'd stop and brainstorm what to do about it. You don't make up fire drills while the building's smoking, right?

Eventually, the nightmares stopped, getting replaced by the teen phobias of giving a speech half dressed or finding out you're failing a class you've never attended. The lists stayed. My habit of analyzing things that scare me stayed. I've learned that can be scared by something, but don't have to live scared.

(I also learned that if you think about monsters long enough and from enough angles, you can disarm some of your fear – either by acceptance or gallows humor. I've decided if I ever contract lycanthropy, I'm getting my teeth pulled then going to have a concrete dog run built. If the undead apocalypse breaks out, I'll team up with other survivors until a inevitable but unforeseen betrayal turns me into zombie chow.)

My Imaginary Friend... Never Showed Up?

I did not have an imaginary friend growing up. This is a bit shocking if you consider I'm an aspiring fiction writer and when you know my backstory.

Growing up, I lived in an 'older' neighborhood with no kids in walking distance, plus I was homeschooled. Not that I minded making friends with grown-ups, but there's only so much sitting and listening a young child can manage at once. There just wasn't any one my age to play with me. (I later gained a little sister at age two, and a baby brother at age five. However, siblings aren't exactly playmates.)

Also, through no fault of my parents, I had a heaping helping of stress and emotional upheaval. Years 2-6 were Dad's 'Chemo-Years.' While Dad survived, the struggle and ripple effect on the household's social, emotional, and finical status was something a young mind could not just 'roll with.' I had lost that feeling of safe and stability.

It would have been perfectly natural for an invisible friend or pet to show up. I was lonely, overwhelmed, and highly, highly imaginative. Instead, autism, the 90's boom of Disney VHS, and a dress-up bin opened a different option – I call them Personas.

Like many autistic children, I had a noticeable period of monkey-see monkey-do and speaking in T.V., quotes. What most people don't realized, I wasn't simply 'playing.' Constantly testing dialogue and behavior helped me create a 'manual' for being understood. (Yes, there were cringe-worthy mistakes made.)

Also, what kid doesn't daydream of being the hero or princess? When you can quote the entire movie, watching the film quickly becomes acting alongside with it. A dress-up box of props and old hats let me fence with Peter Pan, whistle alongside Snow White, and steal the golden arrow with Robin Hood.

Also, it was natural for an overwhelmed child to borrow bit and pieces of her favorite heroes. Peter Pan could sass mean adults, Snow White could do housework without whining, and Robin Hood looked out for others. Full costumes were scaled back into a wooden dagger, a princess bangle... or an old felt hat.

I think the imaginary friend never came because I didn't want a make-believe person to help me cope. I just pretended to be someone who could cope. These Personas grew, changed purpose, or were stored for later. It depended on what I was facing (and what my current favorite shows were). By the time I was a preteen, I'd long stopped talking in quotes and carrying props. I'd just tailor the 'theme' of my behavior as best I could.

Personas might have just become an quirky coping tool, if I hadn't started creative writing in junior high. 

One day the doodle of a chess piece turned into a tower. For some reason, I felt the tower needed a dragon on the roof - because everything is better with dragons. Later, I wondered, “What kind of person would live inside that tower?” The doodle became a short story which became two, then three, then a whole world by the time I hit college.

I'd had years of practice designing other mannerisms and speak patterns. The main characters Leon and Celebramar quickly developed strong voices and a new set of Personas. I found my inner-wizard and inner-dragon through writing. No, I am certainty not a enchanted-item repair specialist or a carnivorous reptile. However, I know their reactions and mannerisms as well as my own.

I know Leon loves that little 'aha,' moment you put the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle together. I know he thinks the pomp and gaudiness of 'court magicians' miss the point of learning magic in the first place. I know Celebramar likes trying cooked foods, even vegetables. I know he views treasure hunters like antique dealers who try to steal that quilt your grandmother made and auction it for money.

Stepping into a fictional viewpoint feels no different that pulling a costume of the dress-up box. Sometimes, it seems like I'm writing a family newsletter instead of make-believe short stories. Both Leon and Celebramar feel real to me.

Now, when I say 'real,' I don't mean living and breathing real. They don't talk to me or typically have opinions on my daily life. Occasionally, I feel dragon-ish but I seldom find myself thinking “What would Celebramar do?”

My mind is an interesting place. It's full of random facts, memories, daydreams, and more Personas that I can list; however, there's no question that it's all me in here. I don't think there's any room left for an imaginary friend.

INTJ, yes. Scary-Smart Criminal Mastermind, No.

Professor James Moriarty, Walter White, Tywin Lannister, and Petyr Bealish “Littlefinger.” All fandom polarizing characters. All INTJs.

The Myers-Briggs INTJ classification aligns with fiction's more infamous Architect/Masterminds - strategic, self-confidence, and willing to walk outside 'normal' rules and ruthlessly leverage loopholes.

With publicity like this, it's not surprising the INTJ group gets held at arm's length. (Real life examples aren't much better - Michelle Obama, Vladimir Putin, and Arnold Schwarzenegger.) We are the introverts that combine creative imagination with a strong rational drive; those “quiet, ambitious ones” you should watch. A female INTJ, like me, is a calculating ice-queen – you don't know you've crossed until you lie broken and bleeding at her feet.

…excuse me while I go laugh myself silly. 

Does Not Compute

I'll freely admit I'm not typical. However, the idea of me being a villainous anything is hilarious. Manipulate people in a long game? No thanks. People make less sense than logarithmic algebra. Yes, I'd rather deal with 'black-box' functions than play mind games.

One of my childhood epiphanies about social interaction was that other people aren't interactive scenery, like NPC's. You can't truly 'redo' a conversation or restore disposition like in a video game. You can make amends and adapt, but other people are always growing and changing. I can use perfect manners and follow social rules to a 'T' but someone's upset stomach could mean I'm blindly walking into a grouchy bear's den.

I'm just smart with good instincts for patterns. However, people are surprising and chaotic. I'd need a supercomputer's worth of brain power to try to track all the variables. (Why do you think so many stories about villains' downfall use the “for-want-of-a-nail” cliché?)

Rational Doesn't Mean Lack of Empathy

At less than 0.2% of the population, INTJ's often grow up the odd duck in a crowd. Ever hear the argument 'think about how it would make you feel?' It didn't always apply to me. I didn't consider or value the same things other kids, teens, and, later, adults did.

Now in most comic books, this would be the start of a villain or anti-hero's descent into darkness. (There is certainly enough complicated drama in my back-story for it.) It's so easy for that disconnect to develop into narcissism or self-loathing.

Purely by the grace of God, I had a third behavior modeled for me. “Yeah, you may be a weirdo but you're MY weirdo.” My family accepted and ferociously defended me, warts and all. I learned that you don't need to have matching personalities to care about someone.

Other people don't need to 'make-sense' to have value. I would never become a Moriarty or Lannister because my sensibility rejects the idea of someone else being just a face in the crowd or a chess-piece. I can respect feelings and choices that I can't understand.

(Do I still have days feel like a castaway trapped on an island where nobody speaks my language? Yes, very much so.)

Part to Whole Fallacy

Not every musician becomes world famous. Not every college drop out becomes a minimum wage slave. If you were to make a Venn Diagram of INTJ and 'Scary-Smart Masterminds' you'd get two intersecting circles with plenty of unclaimed room left in the INTJ bubble.

Are the INTJ stereo-types still valid? Yes, but fictional INTJ's are caricatures. Features are exaggerated to help move the story along.
If you try understand me with a caricature or a politician's public persona, I will laugh in your face. (FYI, I sound like a hyperventilating seal, not a Disney villainess.)

Interested learning more about the Myers-Briggs personality types? I recommend 16 Personalities. The site and test are easy-to-use and descriptive (even thought I spend most my time laughing at the "___'s You May Know" clipart).

Second Gear... not available

Artwork from the manga One Piece,
written and illustrated by Eiichiro Oda

When the fight gets tough, heroes break out their evolved forms. Re-energized they deliver the beat down before they collapse with a grin of victory. 
People love this story because its rings true. You are stronger than you seem. You can break through your limits.

Well, it's true most of the time. As you grow up, you find out some limits are unbreakable. Most of them deal with a physical shortage, “you can't cram 5lbs of poop in a 3lb bag.” Those types of limits can't be powered through. Although Mythbutsers made a hilarious try on the poop one ;)

My D.N.A. coding and enzyme production is an unbreakable limit. There's no luckily phrase or medicine that cures my symptoms. My body has about 60% operating power compared to other adults, along with its host of knockout triggers. I can't supercharge myself like Monkey D. Luffy. Instead I plan everything in advance and make backup plans in case of a two hour migraine.

Take my writing schedule for example. My family knows that everyday from 1-4pm is reserved for writing. However, on an average week, I can only guarantee myself about 3 days. That's 9 hours per week. (Yes, that's a shocking small number.)

Oddly enough, I did not just pull this schedule out of thin air. I have a writing coach, Sarah Freeman, who's trying to teach me the nuts and blots of making a career of storytelling. We can't tack more time to my week. However we can optimize it.

One of the motivation articles Sarah gave me to read was by Jon Morrow. He's a blogger with spinal muscular atrophy, a very visible, very nasty chronic illness. He debunks the 'superhuman' icon of bloggers and explains that knowing when and what things to drop is the key to managing his health and career. You don't do 'more' you change what you spend time on.

I know I needed to 'do more' as a writer/blogger. There's author groups, guest article writing, and hundreds of online networking options. However, it's not something where an attendance grade is enough. You have to interact and use your brain.

With my peak brain energy limited, I had to take a look at how I spend my time. Social media, proofing my drafts, typing, overthinking stuff for my series (how to dragons blow out birthday candles?) it all eats away at that nine hours. What could I drop safely?

Some number crunching later, I found it. If I dropped from bi-monthly to a monthly blog, I could regain nearly 5 hours. That's a day and a half of brain power every month. With that kind of time, I could get more involved with Introvert, my Dear or HSP...

I know this would be a good use of my time. However, I'm as nervous about this as Spider-Man testing this first web line. It's one thing to post on your own site and wait for readers to stumble in. Guest blogging means getting approval from gatekeepers, watching out for what your 'brand' is attached to, and dealing with.... other writers -_-; (There's a good reason Marvel has the 'Let's-you-and-he-fight' cliche.)

I'm not a superhero, or even a particularly adventurous person. My special powers are overthinking and coming up with ways NOT to leave my comfort zone. However, engineering college taught me that motivation follows the laws of thermodynamics. I have to keep cycling 'energy' into my work or friction from life will drag me to a stop.

So this is me, changing from a bi-monthly blog schedule to a monthly. I'm working within my limits and moving forward. When you can't charge up, you've got to swap things around.

Overthinking: Mermaids (...and their male counterparts)

Mermaids are a fantasy staple. The charming, Atlantica princesses who romance sailors and their dark counterparts in Peter Pan who will 'sweetly drown you if you get too close,' they embody beauty and the mystery of the ocean.

Of course, my brain had to ruin the moment, “Why don't the human bits go all pruney from soaking in the water?” 

Much like the centaur question, this thought won't go away. If Tales of Mundus was to have any type of Merfolk, I needed for them to make sense. 

The more I thought about it, the more problems I found. Mundus is a situational comedy. A wandering Disney heroine won't make it three steps through the woods before tripping into a prickle bush or a hidden gofer hole. My merfolk need a proper epidermis to put up with sand, silt, litter and toothy creatures.

Unfortunately, the first scaleless fish I thought of was the catfish. They are smooth; they're also snotty. (Not to be confused with snooty) The attractiveness of a mermaid princess with a protective coat of mucus is well below sea-level.

Shark skin is a bit better. It looks smooth and counts for the exotic factor. Texture wise though, sharks are rougher to the touch than humans.

So I turned to aquatic mammals, dolphins and seals. However, the merfolk mystic still suffers when they're rubbery to the touch or covered in a waterproof fur, respectively. Whales are reported to have a very smooth skin. (Apparently the bumps and barnacles develop like teen acne.)

I can work with shark or whale skinned merfolk. However, my runnaway brain isn't done nitpicking. The next target - hair.  (T_T)

My personal experience from swimming with long, loose hair is that it's a tangle hazard. To make Ariel's flowing locks work, I'd have to design Mundus merfolk with 'hair' that's a semi-responsive collection of micro-tentacles, like jelly fish.

Eye lashes and eyebrows are yet another problem. They're not as effective at protecting an underwater eye. However, a ingratiating membrane, like frogs have, pushes mermaids from exotic to creepy and alien.

I feel like I'm playing Frankenstein. However, just can't make the classic mermaid make sense. It's not a functional for life in Mundus. My merfolk need to hunt and farm, build fish traps, trade with land dwellers for refined metal tools, plus develop arts and written language. Yes, they're just side characters, but this is a functioning civilization! 

…somedays, my brain doesn't just follow the overthinker stereotype. No, it sticks a marshal hat and baton on the stereotype and gleefully plays 'Oom-pah! Oom-pah!” with a full band. (-_-;)

Quiet in the Library!

I never thought I would become 'unwelcome' at my childhood library.

The Bixby library holds many precious memories for me. It's where I signed my first library card after weeks of practicing cursive. It's where Mom made the 'only as many books as you are old rule' and the later 'you also have to be able to carry them all' amendment. I've explored those stacks, worked in those stacks, and returned to them over and over. College, multiple remodels and my favorite librarians retiring didn't break my relationship.

I've managed to keep my card active through a combination of a) having parents who work in Tulsa county or b) living or attending school in Tulsa county. While I didn't always NEED to visit, I can't remember a time when I didn't have the fall back of the resources. (I also mooch wifi regularly.)

On New Years Eve 2018, however, I needed a computer. The backstory is long and involves waking up at dark-thirty and a rescued dog. I went to the computers... and realized I'd forgotten the password after two years.

Well, one explanation and a sales pitch later, I stormed out of the library. My sanctuary had been reclaimed by the city of Tulsa. If you can't produce a pay-stub or proof of address, there's a fee to use the computers and a even bigger fee if you want a working library card.

“Sorry it's policy. It's just out of my hands.” The librarian was very professional and polite. Unfortunately, she ran smack into that emotional baggage labeled Issues. (yes, with a capital 'I') Short version, my brain burped up a lot of unpleasant feelings and memories.

I've bulldogged through college administration, a string of idiot doctors, and the Social Security Application process. 'Out of my hands' is a trigger phrase. It means my paperwork is in limbo; that someone who never met me thinks I've hit the cut off point; or, most often, it's time to fight nasty.

The library isn't the place for fighting. So I excused myself before I made a bigger scene than snapping 'Screw this noise!” at the fees for internet access. (At $2 for a 90 minute session, it's cheaper to burn through my cellular data.) Not very mature, that I'll admit. However, I'd just had the rug yanked out from under me.

In a previous rant, I talk about how internet and a functioning computer are a must for modern life. Suddenly, I get why the homeless and unemployed are stuck waiting in lines. They CAN'T browse the status of local or government support networks. They CAN'T book a online chat session. Waiting in line for somebody to verbally explain things is the best option. (Two dollars can also buy a lot of different things when you're on the poverty line, trust me.)

The library is an invaluable resource of how-to-books, genealogy records, philosophy and entertainment. However, it's not free or free access. What was I thought was my second home, turned out to be a private club; once again, I'm an outsider.

Now, a cooler head would swallow their outrage and pay for the membership. I am calmer, I could scrap up the money... but I'm too embarrassed to ask for one. A skinny, trilby-wearing brunette is pretty memorable. I gonna wait a few months before I go back. (If I take off my hat, nobody will recognize me.)

I don't want to be pegged as the lady who yelled in the library.