Caterwauling

As part of my New Years resolutions to keep up with my industry kardashians, if you will, I’ve been the lucky recipient of a lot of gossip. 

Really shocking how many people up and quit. It’s epidemic, really. 

More shocking is who gets shown the door. I’d say more talented people than me, but mine is still there somewhere. 

But being the person who works hard quietly and makes the snappiest comebacks among friends (and hands people ideas with zero credit needed) isn’t really working for anyone but me. 

In any event, one friend said their dream is to retire from their current company. 

And I was like, huh? People my age think that way?

I guess I was too fresh off of hearing about seven different people who were hired by one company, got rolled into another division there, hated it and applied at three others, even called my company for an interview, and then got rolled into yet another division. 

Basically hoping to retire from the company you’re in is about as fantastical as the idea that we will be able to retire at all. 

I didn’t say all that. My friend is a dedicated worker bee like me, and we have that shared panic after seeing great people get axed and lazy mofos getting “axed” to accept more pay and perks.  

All in all we know we are lucky, but we also know Fairy tales don’t always have happy endings. Even though we still think  they could turn out magical, if you just believe. 
Well, just as long as you can drink away our reality that the world’s biggest shithead just got confirmed by congress to run the free world into the ground.

So really, will we even be alive when we are 67? I’m thinking Jessica Alba will be the only one left on the scorched earth, reprising her “Dark Angel” role. (Or Shaliene Woodley in the “Allegiant” series, for yinz youngns, although who would want to hang around Chicago, I ask you?)

There isn’t enough alcohol in Total Wine to soothe me. But it won’t stop me from finding just how much it might take. 

Came close to a coherent string of thoughts today. 

No cigar. But getting there. 

That flaming fucktard who’s about to desecrate me favorite city and the democratic republic in general (and bigly) is going to get us all killed. I am sure of it. 

I figure why worry about (not) saving for retirement? Spend it. Buy booze. Make these agonizing days pass quickly. Fuck him and fuck it all. Let it all burn. 

I also (initially) figured, why diet? Not like I’m getting out of my 40s if fuckface gets us nuked. Eat the goddamned chocolate. All of it. 

But if this is all there is, it isn’t enough. It never was. But the whole deadline concept really kicked in today. 

And nothing brings out my creativity like the clock running out. 

But I realized something. 

My whole life, my appearance has been present and accounted for in my head. Since I got burned so badly at age 10 and every day after.

I went the wrong way for a long time. Let everything go rather than making the rest better. 

Figured I’d just make myself smarter. But idiocracy is at our doorstep. I always said the student loan company could never suck the knowledge out of my brain. But the nazis and russkies sure will. 

In any event, what if thinking about appearance were no longer a thing? How to eliminate it? 

Fix it. 

Wonder if that’s how I need to tackle all my problems. Less thinky, more fixy. 

I hate fixing problems because I just get a new set. But I’m really ready to part ways with the old ones. 

Anyway. Still thinking. Until I stop and just fucking do something already. 

Just fucking do it already. Nike ain’t got nothin’ on me. 

There’s a snowball’s chance that we could get Colin Powell elected on Jan. 6. No more Tangerine Twat-grabber. It can happen. 

I won’t hold my breath. But it would be nice to refer to the past two months as that time America went temporarily insane. 

One of the many things that don’t get talked about when you’re being assaulted (sexually or otherwise) …

Is how you find a place inside your head where you can hide.

I mean, sure you feel the pain — physical, emotional, your soul — but you find a little niche you can stuff yourself into. In your mind.

I don’t know where it is and I don’t know how I manage to find it when I need it. But it’s there. And thank God for that.

A book I’m reading pointed out quite plainly that we never talk about the full “fight or flight” response. That it’s really “fight, flight or freeze.”

I know the frozen state too well. (So does my work computer Elsa and my home laptop Anna.)

And it’s not that it works for me (the technological or the psychologically frozen state), but I can go back to it as often as needed. Unfortunately, that’s pretty often.

I just know what I’m capable of when I’m hurting. I fear it. But I bet it would keep people from messing with me ever again.

And I’m terrified/thrilled about the moment I get to say “Goodbye, Earl.”

So.

Someone somewhere proposed a new solution to something that may or may not be a problem.

So.

Someone else decided that we need to start using this “solution” ASAP.

So.

It is now 11 extra steps to a process that was already 36 steps too long.

I think I just found a tiny pocket of rage I hadn’t quite exhausted before.

Andy Borowitz joked that he’s been drinking since the election. 

It occurs to me that I’ve been overeating since the election. 

And drinking, of course. My nerves are shot. 

I was trying to get motivated after killing a bottle of wine last night and again tonight … and not even getting as much as a buzz …

And I thought, fuck. If I can stay sober during Tangerine Tiny Hands’ first 100 days, it’ll be a friggin’ miracle. 

But maybe if I can just eat normal portions during those 100 days, I can have a couple cocktails a week. 

When they go low, we aim lower. 

On this day last year, I decided that 2016 would be the year of “enough.”

I defined it materialistically in my head. That what I had was enough. Enough clothes, enough income, enough friends.

I see now where that went horribly wrong.

By year-end 2016, I’d had enough, all right — enough of the users, abusers and insults and wasted time. Enough inane conversations and not enough time to get things done. Not even great things — just daily things. That I’d had more than enough of.

So I thought I’d come into 2017 with “plenty” as my mantra. I have plenty. I will always have plenty. Blessings are plentiful.

But I wonder if that doesn’t throw me into another dumpster fire of a year like the one that just mercifully ended a few hours ago.

Of course, if Trump really does become president (gah, ugh, hork, vomit), we’re fucked. Illiterate, ill-spoken, ill-tempered and small-dicked fool.

And I’ve already had PLENTY ENOUGH of his shit.

Need to think about this one a bit. This next four years is already going to be a goddamned nightmare. 

Need to figure out where to get some joy where I can. And right now, I don’t see where it will come from.

Other than from fellow Democrats and the internet …