Caterwauling

“Do you really want to know where I was April 29th?
Do I really have to chart the constellations in his eyes?”

Happy High Infidelity day to those who celebrate!

Had a bad night. I mean, a BAD NIGHT. Ran over to my cat feeding friend’s house at 2 a.m. to leave all kinds of stuff on her porch.

I mean, she said she’s feeding at 4 a.m., right?

The place was dark. And she replied … 12 hours later at 2 p.m. to say thanks. Which tells me that’s when she woke up.

So sorry, kitties. I’ve clearly forsaken you. Christ, if you have to rely on her, forget it.

I think I fell asleep around 5 a.m. — there is NO WAY I would have gotten up at 6, anyway. I mean, I WOULD have. And if someone harassed me, they would have probably been dead meat. Or I would have been.

You see, I was a debutante in another life
But now I seem to be scared to go outside.”

That’s the limbo I live in. Someone is going to get hurt, and it’s usually me.

Speaking of me feeling like shit, I had three very good ideas today. My colleague agreed to one, so yay.

The other ideas relied on the big boss being on board. Which, he was like no I have too much to do right now.

He always says no right away. I promise you, give it a week and he’ll come to ME with a GREAT IDEA that sounds like mine. And I’ll say that’s AWESOME; I know JUST the way to execute on it!

But then middle boss says to me to go figure out something else.

What, I should grow some dangly bits?

(ETA: I have an alternate idea for one. I also have 47 other priorities so we’ll see if it’s worth it to have delayed all of those time-sensitive things for this.)

I’ve never gotten a single atta girl or great idea or go with that or I believe in you from this one. Anything I say, even if it is echoing something he said to me in the past, is something to be challenged.

“If I were the man
I’d be THE MAN.

When I got fired from the last company, they brought in a guy named Aaron to take my place.

I mean, they really wanted a marketer. So they got a marketer.

Also he has dangly bits. Which only could have helped my cause there.

Aaron just told them to go suck wind and he went back to his prior job. (Yes!) Like I was able to do. Interesting parallel.

There’s another Aaron who just resigned from his job. I freaking helped him build his new company and when I needed a job, he fucked me. So he can fuck all the way off.

Anyway, he is now taking a sabbatical. (Must be nice.) And we heard some dude is taking his place.

There’s a woman who’s worked there AND at the predecessor company (where I worked, which is how I knew what worked/didn’t so he could work around it).

My friend says, why doesn’t this woman step up and be the publisher?

I said for the same reason I will never have the publisher job. Dangly Bits.

As in, you can’t see mine. So, let’s find someone who has visible ones.

“You know there’s many different ways
That you can kill the one you love
The slowest way is never loving them enough.”

Welp. That was my April 29th.

My co-feeder, now the main feeder (god help those kitties), was not thrilled when I said I’ve had enough.

Suddenly, after months of me saying, could any of your friends around here help us out from time to time (uh, no), she suggests oh maybe this or that person can take over for me.

She calls today to say instead of her going at 1 and 6 a.m., she went at 4. And it was great. She will just feed once a day at 4, from now on. Maybe one other time a day, if I could contribute financially a bit.

So I guess the friends were a fizzle. Or maybe they will figure it out and maybe really unite against evil. Who knows.

I got five straight hours of sleep last night and it was GLORIOUS. But I still feel like shit.

Like, when Cocoa was alive and someone at Publix or Petsmart would ask how many cats I had, I’d say 10. Three inside, seven outside.

Then I got that punch in the fucking heart every time people would ask, after Cocoa passed. Nine. Just nine.

Today I got to talking with a gal at Publix about our cats. My haul was tiny today. Usually half my bill is cat food. Today, maybe six cans.

She said how many do you have. And I channeled my bio dad when I asked him how many children he had, when he said, “Just two.” (Neither of which was named me, but I digress.)

I started to say nine. But I said, no, just two.

Old habits die screaming.

The gal told me she got her kitty because some dumbass family in her neighborhood moved and left her. She found the cat, took it to Peggy Adams, and they held her for 10 days, during which they tried to get in touch with the name on the chip.

The owners did respond, nah, we don’t want her.

So they called my casher, and she was like YEAH.

She showed me a pic of a gorgeous Calico. Like my Maddie. I said what’s her name. She said her dad named her Mooch … after he bought her a cat tree, five cat beds, every flavor of food under the sun and other critter comforts.

I said the best day of Mooch’s life was when you went back to that shelter.

I texted my friend here to say, well, if Butterface DOES manage to take a cat to Peggy, you’re the name on the microchip. They are going to call you.

OH! I got home from Publix and I swore I saw Butterface out walking past my parking spot. I circled the lot three times and took lots of photos.

It’s … definitely the lady in the photo I posted the other day. But she seemed like she could not give less of a shit about the world around her.

Like, the other one looked a lot healthier and sounded a lot less literate. Not that this one talked, but she had a good aura about her up close.

In any event, I won’t lie that it felt GREAT to sleep till 7:30 a.m. on this Sunday morning.

I also won’t lie that I have no intentions of being outside at dawn or dusk, when I would often sneak out to see the kids. It will kill me to see them and be someone else who let them down.

But, knowing that I will never have to be within NOT punching distance of Carl and all those other bitches/bitch boys is kind of nice.

There were many nights I would give the kiddos rotisserie chicken or turkey or even split a few quick cans at 7 or 8 p.m. since I knew my tag-team partner doesn’t roll in till the wee hours.

I can still do that. I just don’t want to be reliable right now. I’m barely parenting the kiddos I got, with everything else going on.

All I ask the universe right now is to let me have October. I have schemed and dreamed and planned and paid for something, and I need for it to happen.

“I hate it here so I will go to secret gardens in my mind

People need a key to get to the only one is mine.”

It is literally the only thing I’m living for right now.

I’m used to internet bullies who won’t go away.

Even when I cancel my subscription to their issues (as I’ve just deleted my final burner account), I can still feel them sneering at me from afar.

I mean, it’s always possible that they’ve moved it on or let it go or whatever they’ve said for five years.

It occurred to me as I listened to “thanK you aIMee” — rather, watching the KIM of it all post a lot of shit to try to convince us that she’s unbothered about it — that people put a LOT of effort into acting unbothered.

Kind of defeats the purpose of being unbothered, eh? To ruminate over it?

In any event, I am bothered about my loser neighbors. Today the latin bitch boy took a hose to my kids’ food.

I texted my co-feeder to say I have had enough. I have a big bag of containers and food for you. Find someone else to go through this heartbreak every day.

It was relatively peaceful till about three weeks ago. I was feeding street kids at 6 a.m. when Latin Bitch Boy came out, saw us, and stomped through the food. I hid, and the kids ran, and that was it. But, no one wanted to eat. And I calculated the day’s financial loss at $7.

Then the next monday, some bitch I call Butterface on a Bike rolled up my ass while I was feeding Fancy and Whiskey, aka The BFFs.

She called me ignorant and told me she works for Peggy Adams. Then she changed her mind and said she is taking the cats to Peggy Adams.

She kept talking at me (and photographing/videoing me) till I stood up. I said, “Great chat!” and walked away. She yelled one more time that I’m ignorant.

I saw her the next Monday (after several near-misses with losers in that same lot), but my cloak of invisibility worked. Somehow, she on her bike missed me feeding seven cats in three places. Whew.

My Facebook record:

The butterface on a bike saw me at 5:50 a.m. but did not see me feed kiddos. So I am thankful they got to eat their tiny morsels in peace today, without me getting yelled at.

Then Thursday happened.

Butterface on a Bike tailed/circled me for 26 minutes today. I fed the street cats, she was up my ass filming and taking photos. She said “WE ARE ON TO YOU, MISSY.” And I said, “Yay!”

Then she followed me to Amelia and Smalls. They were scared and wouldn’t eat. I crouched down with them for a good 10 minutes.

Finally I stood up and said, “Still here?” She said, “Something wrong?” I said, “Not with me.”

She said you are the reason we have raccoons. I said I am the reason you DON’T have rats anymore.

She said, oh you love to argue — you KNOW you’re in the wrong. I said I stand up for what’s right.

She called me a bunch of names and I said you know, you’ve called me a loser, trash, ignorant — she said you ARE ignorant but I never called you that. I said you sure did, two Mondays ago.

She said well I’m also going to call you dirty. You should take those cats to your apartment since it’s probably dirty like you are.

I laughed and walked by the water where bikes aren’t allowed. She rode on in. I said, “Bikes aren’t ALLOWED here. Since you are all about RULES.”

She said you don’t follow rules so why should I.

I forget what she called me but I said, “Wow, what a woman you are, calling another woman names. Real class act, aren’t you.”

She also said something dumb about how they lock up their trash room because of me; I literally carry a trash bag with me.

I did say, too, they’ve been here 10 years and you’ve been here 10 minutes. Looks like this place will accept anyone in here now.

I told my co-feeder about it. She offered to wake up and join me the next morning, Friday.

She didn’t.

It’s fine because I had a great morning with all seven babies.

She texted me when she got up, as I put on Facebook:

My co-feeder got bullied out of feeding the cats last night. By a different bully, the Latin bitch boy. Thats why she wasn’t up for a fight, literally.

She goes at 1 a.m. So I really can’t go earlier than 6 a.m. They go from 6 a.m. to 1 a.m. with NO FOOD OR WATER.

So that brings us to today.

I wake up at six (on a SATURDAY), and I only see Meatball and Fancy. Weird. So I feed them and watch Fancy, as ever, take two bites and run.

I’ve noticed that with all the cats but Meatball. They take their two bites, maybe five, then it’s off to the races.

Every day, I chase Fancy and Whiskey and feed them again. (The gray kitty usually eats their food, so there’s scant evidence I was ever there.)

They go into enemy territory, the cursed parking lot where Latin Bitch Boy and Carl and his violent daughter live.

I didn’t see the missing cats, so I came over to my building to do the whole Smalls and Amelia and gray kitty situation.

Then I figured, I’ve never had a shitty Saturday morning. These fuckers stay in bed. Let me go see if the street kids turned up.

Sure enough, Whiskey and Poppins were waiting, like YOU DIDN’T FORSAKE US AFTER ALL! I fed them, great.

Then I walked the length of the cursed parking lot twice till I found Fancy. Usually she likes to hide under a car and eat; today she was fine with being at the edge of the lot by … where the Latin Bitch Boy parks in the Genesis he doesn’t deserve.

I gave her a scoop and some treats. Then I gave some treats to Meatball, Whiskey and Poppins.

As I walked away, the cats SCATTERED.

Latin Bitch Boy came out and TURNED THE FUCKING HOSE ON FANCY.

Meatball and I ran to my building. I pretended to film Bitch Boy but really I was typing on Facebook. I was too far away, TBH.

He started yelling at me and I was like nope. Not engaging with crazy. I did enough of that for five years on Twitter, thanks.

The latin bitch boy is hosing down the kids’ food. Real charmer. He is yelling at me right now. So Fancy didn’t get to eat.

May I always have more money and grace than they have cruelty and stupidity.

Let me say that for the universe once more time.

May I always have more money and grace than they have cruelty and stupidity.

I was pissed off but I figured I’d get over it.

But I got home and mom woke up and I snapped.

Tears started streaming down my face. I said these cats would be SO much better off somewhere else. I need to stop encouraging them to stay there.

Also I’m just coming off of THREE weeks of being sick.

PLUS, I have to look at nurses who nod sympathetically and write shit in their charts and hug me with tears in their eyes as they say goodbye.

Who gets hugs other than those failed by their doctors and nature itself?

Oh, BTW, mINDY is a metaphor but there is an actual Dr. Mindy B. who can fuckin drive face first into a Brightline with all the rest of these cunts.

She looks like Cindy too. I knew we wouldn’t get along.

Anyway.

I packed up a big bag of water dishes and the case of food I just ordered from Chewy. The special stuff the street kids like but that PetSmart rarely stocks.

I threw in a giant bag of lobster flavored treats that’s still sealed. A bag of Kitten Chow. And a gift card I had meant to send to one of my staffers who quit before I could get it in the mail.

And I texted my co-feeder that she needs to find a backup for me, and I have a care package for her.

Everyone knows that my mother is a saintly woman
But she used to say she wished that you were dead
I pushed each boulder up the hill
Your words are still just ringing in my head
Ringing in my head

This is how our rights get stripped away. Reproductive, gender identification, civil, workers’, whatever. The evil fuckers chip away at you day after day, tweet by tweet, insult by insult, threat by threat.

I slept THREE HOURS yesterday and I got up to THIS?

Look, I LOVE those cats. I have plotted a million ways to Sunday how to kidnap Fancy and Whiskey (bonded pair).

And I have fallen in love with Smalls. He is SO CUTE.

I think of what that Butterface Bitch, who does nothing but ride her bike like the Wicked Witch (the one in the movie/play AND the one in my cult classic song, “fuCk you mINDY”) and go sit by the pool eight hours a day with the others in their cult who sit and bitch about the cats, would do to gloat.

But it’s not enough for me to keep obsessing about the fear and the injustice and the asininity of it all.

I like being the girl the neighbors slip food and compliments to, out of earshot of everyone else. Thank you for taking care of those kiddos. I’m not brave enough.

Hell, on Wednesday (a good day), I couldn’t find Smalls and he started yelping from between cars. A nice man walked by and pointed and said, “I think he’s looking for you.”

I said THANK YOU and I was SO thrilled that someone here was nice enough to just LET ME DO MY THING.

Like, why isn’t THAT the norm?

But no. The mINDYs of the world will be evil bullies and the people like me will take it until we can’t.

An old friend, Dave, I met through this very blog texted me.

Thank you for standing up for what’s right. I can’t do what you do. We need people like you who do this for all of us.

He is literally, PHYSICALLY incapable of having fights all the time. Like, he could not stand out there and deal with this shit.

I posted on Facebook, would it be terrible if I threw in the towel on all this.

Another friend, Bill, who I also met through this blog, said (my words, and what I believe is his sentiment):

You don’t get to pick when it’s time for self-care. You do it when you need to.

So, you win, mINDY. Shindy. Butterface Bitch. Latin Bitch Boy. Carl and Lauren. MJ. YOU ALL FUCKING WIN.

Karma is going to have to even the score. I don’t even care anymore.

Y’all broke me.

And even THAT won’t make any of you happy.

But at least I’m not going to let you ruin my life anymore.

As she was leaving …
It felt like breathing.

I wonder how Taylor Swift sits down to write, knowing people are out there who are intentionally going to twist it and claim she’s worshipping satan and preparing to have his baby.

Of course, her (presumed) future father in law retweeted that very claim and laughed at it. So, at least she has that.

I’m going on two solid weeks with no sleep. Have a new stalker here at the hacienda. This one rides a bike and does circles around me and insults me while I feed cats. Like, childish, bitchy insults.

She has quite the butterface. Like, I’d wish that she drove headfirst into the Brightline that runs 100 yards from here, but she looks like she already did.

I haven’t insulted her. I simply laugh at her as she films me and threatens me. Like, Jesus Christ, did the world’s most deplorable people all decide to live here all at once?

I often think of moving. I have dreamed of it for like four years. But who would take care of the cats?

I got to rewatching an old episode of 9-1-1. At the end of S1 Ep 9, Abby’s mother passes away from a pulmonary embolism. On top of all her other fucking problems.

The thing is, Abby had taken care of her for ages. Everyone said her mom held her back. But Abby, now alone, declares (in my words) “The thing everyone said was holding you back turns out to be what was holding you together all along.”

I felt that. I have this nitwit neighbor (shocker) who’s a pastor. And he’s always said maybe I could have a real life if I were alone.

I’m like well that’s un-fucking-pastorly, eh?

Hilariously, this dipshit has a big fat pro-life license plate. And I park next to him with my big holographic hanger sticker that says “Never Again.”

I also have a holographic “This Girl Loves Ducks” sticker because this fucker kicks every duck he sees on the way to the pool every evening.

Jesus Christ, this fucking PLACE.

Anyway I’ve told him numerous times to sit and spin. Like, you don’t get to give me your observations on what you think is my life.

“YOU WOULDN’T LAST AN HOUR IN THE ASYLUM WHERE THEY RAISED ME.”

Ahem.

Anyway, in S1 Ep 10, Abby skips town and goes to Ireland, where her mother always wanted to go.

They made it lame. Like, she had no point to her life now, and she lost her identity a long time before that. So why wouldn’t she burn down her life and do something different.

I often dream of doing this. Not the whole having no purpose in life. But (third Taylor Swift reference incoming) “they’re burning all the witches even if you aren’t one. So light me up, light me up.”

What I dream of is going somewhere, changing my name and living out my days.

I don’t know where “somewhere” is. I’d miss all the outside kiddos. And I’m not insane enough to think someone would take over for me.

But a lot of these kids were here many years before I was. So, maybe there’s a chance that someone else would stand up to all these ignorant assholes and do what’s right.

The pastor is selling his place. I am worried we’ll get someone even worse. And I’ll lose even more sleep since I get harassed at 6 a.m. and need to, what, get up earlier now?

Anyway, in addition to missing my concert last week, tomorrow is my cousin’s celebration of life in Pittsburgh. I was going to fly up but I gots a doctor’s appointment to deal with. On a Saturday.

I feel bad that my cousin won’t have anyone from her mom’s side of the family other than her sister. But, that’s more than enough.

I still feel bad I didn’t see my cousin’s mom when I was up there last. But even my cousin says, we didn’t know. We knew she wasn’t great but who knew she’d get like one chemo treatment the next week be sent straight to hospice in my cousin’s house.

I’ve talked about how Larry went to JFK, got one cancer treatment, and pretty much just up and died. Same thing happened with Elaine, but she was at a much better facility. And my cousin’s a doctor.

But I was just talking to another guy I met, who calls me Goddess. (As one should.) He told me his best friend was 41 a decade ago. His best friend found a lump in his chest and went to JFK.

Again, one chemo appointment, and he was dead the next day.

What the fuck is up with JFK, and do they only take the good ones out or what?

In any event, I have these nasty ass people here who, let me quote this bitch, she called me ignorant and said if I find the cats so cute, I look dirty and I should take them in my dirty house. She’s called me a loser and trash and I don’t know what else. I simply say, “What a lady you are!”

Anyway, literally I am struggling mentally and physically to get from one day to the next, and this heifer feels it’s her birthright to ruin that one good thing. Not just for me. For the cats.

What really hurts is all they want is to be petted and loved. I throw food at them lightning-fast and run so people don’t see me and run the kiddos’ meals. Because when I am seen, it’s yelling and stomping through meals and not from by/from me.

The cats seem so sad that I barely look at them. Sometimes one or two will even follow me. I will offer more food if I have it, and sometimes they take it but more often, they turn around and hide.

They know they aren’t wanted here. They sometimes don’t even want what I have to offer in general. Like, lady, why even bother, you know?

Anyway, like Taylor sings, “Another fortnight lost in America.” Another night of sleep lost. Probably another morning the cats don’t get food or love or both.

But I’ll keep trying.

“At least I’m trying.” (Taylor reference #4.)

I didn’t intend to be awake to listen to “TTPD” when it was released.

But alas, as Thursday ebbed into Friday, I logged into Apple Music and was delighted to see it was ready for me at 11:50-ish.

Imagine my sleep-deprived delight when another 15 songs, the TTPD anthology edition, appeared in my account two hours later.

My plan was to take PTO Friday to drive to Tampa to see Kenny Chesney. But, as life happens, I didn’t see the possibility of being away for two to three days. So I sold my $260 ticket for $80 and worked.

I won’t claw back that time. It was rollover, anyway. And life has been so chaotic that I am sure I lost eight hours elsewhere throughout the week. At least.

I’ve done myself a disservice reading reviews and memes about TTPD/Anthology.

Now, I haven’t seen what the E-Gatsby of Greenacres has to say about it. I’m sure it’s a meh and a pooh-pooh and a Beyonce is better mashup, along with some missing apostrophes and extra commas.

In any event, I am not listening to anyone who isn’t a lifelong TS fan. The album was not meant for anyone but us. There are so many invisible strings and I am getting tired of drawing them for people who don’t get it.

I do owe myself a back-pat because I told my fellow Swiftie cousin that there was no way this was going to be a Joe diss album. We don’t hurt the ones we actually loved.

“It’s the worst men that I write best.”

We do relive those torrid (illicit) affairs. Whether we’re with them for one night or one fortnight (heh), they can produce even more searing pain than having your pretty and your youth wasted (for free).

I’m still processing that someone DID get taken to the cleaners and it was Ratty.

Which, I am having some issues now affiliating my beloved “Maroon” from “Midnights” (“The mark you saw on my collarbone, the rust that grew between telephones / The lips I used to call home, so scarlet, it was maroon”) with Matty (“So if I sell my apartment / And you have some kids with an internet starlet / Will that make your memory fade from this scarlet maroon?”).

For example.

Taylor makes it clear that we’re all vipers who stole her fun. We put her on a pedestal she didn’t ask to be on and tell her how to be.

Actually, I figure the dating pool where I am is so shallow, and she’s got her pick of everyone in the world, why go for a greaseball. But, I also GET it. The one they’d never put you with, can make so much sense at the time.

Also I have decided to stop clowning the release of Reputation (Taylor’s Version). It’s exhausting. And she seems to think we don’t appreciate all she gives us. Like a whole ass surprise double album, for starters.

I will just sit here in my custom Big Rep mouse ears, and knowing that there will (again) be no explanation before RepTV.

I got these on TTPD day. I won the Great War! (Uh huh)

The gold bow I chose is a big IYKYK.

Not to be confused with YOYOK.

Anyway.

I worry that Travis is the rebound, rather than Rat Mat. That big, goofy golden doodle who knows he hit the situationship jackpot. Like, how does he feel when he listens to 2 hours and 2 minutes (Good job, Blondie) and only two songs and mayyyybe one minute of another are for him?

Anyway. I wish I could reach out to Tay-Tay and say thank you for baring your soul and your teeth (yes, the ones we took away. I get the metaphor).

And that’s really what it’s all about. She is all about the allusions and metaphors and stories and myths and legends. She loves a good Easter egg and she loves an invisible string even better.

I see you, Taylor.

I just wish I could have stuck with my writing and become a better storyteller. Having friends like Jack and Aaron wouldn’t hurt, either. I only dated one writer but we never got around to writing.

Anyway, I love the album(s) and I envy anyone who gets to hear select songs live during the “surprise” section of her Eras Tour sets.

And don’t think I won’t be using some of my favorite lines as post titles and themes. Like this one. Which I plan to use again when I can talk about WHY I am not in Tampa this weekend. Or why we haven’t slept in months.

A friend who’s had every strain of Covid but the first said she’s convinced I currently have the second strain.

Great. Four years since the pandemic from hell started, and Miss Rona finally got me.

I gave it to Mom, too. So it’s been a fun couple weeks in this house.

We think she had the earliest version, as someone in the office had it and we used the same Bloomberg terminal, and I think I was a carrier.

Anyway, the pandemic might have been good for some people. Some of their businesses thrived. Some of them started new businesses.

I don’t know that all pandemic-related businesses can or will survive, though. The things we needed then (like self-checkout) are being limited, removed entirely and/or we’re being charged for the convenience of not having bleach thrown on top of our bread.

But I do know that the effects of long Covid are real (and devastating). And I do know that I never thought of myself as someone who would be mentally unhealthy and wildly unproductive. And yet, here we are.

To be fair, a lot of that unproductiveness comes from taking a job with an utter lack of leadership. And then returning to my beloved job with new layers of leadership shoved between me and my best boss.

Also, during this whole pandemic, I’ve been dealing with stuff no one could understand or would even want to. Operating on very little sleep. Having every single small joy ruined by other humans and other unexpected limitations.

I am good at forgiving myself for being wildly distracted, tired and otherwise disgusted with everything.

Here’s hoping my employer continues to show me grace, since I did prove a long time ago that I could work 14-hour days every day for a decade without much complaint.

I think about my mom a lot. She really was the reason I could work so hard and so long. Like, add some long commutes to either end of those days. And plenty of “oh just let me log in for a minute”s that turned into hours.

She literally has been a wife. Made meals. Kept the house immaculate and tastefully decorated. Cared for my kiddos and helped me “love them out” from adoption to the Rainbow Bridge.

These days, I do most of the work. And work I will never speak of that’s unpaid. And I am so so so grateful that I am still gainfully employed.

Many days, like the past 14 with Covid, I’ve been ready to hear from one of the new layers of management to GTFOH. Yet, the fear is not the motivator I thought it would be.

Like, I think about some of those idiotic management layers that have been mercifully stripped away over the years. I always thought, Jeez, you get all this money, fucking act like it matters and show some goddamned leadership.

But maybe, just maybe, I really am lucky and I’m receiving grace and that I am DESERVING of that grace.

I don’t know. I just know that everything is so hard right now. And if I had to start over financially, Christ, how would I even do it. I learned from my short stint elsewhere that I am too groomed for my current environment to survive in any other.

Though, I wonder what a year off, a bona fide year off to take care of things and people and cats, would be like. Albeit without money, yes.

BUT … would it be the pause that refreshes this time (god willing) or would it, like the last several times, just be another fucking stress that kills me further?

There are some people who will celebrate the countdown to, and the month after, a birthday or anniversary. Adorbs.

Personally I save my sentimentality. And maybe, too, it’s that all the dates I remember are associated with sadness.

I forgot about Toad till he showed up in my memories.

I mean, the relationship ran its course. Nothing more that could have been done. On my part, anyway.

But seeing this in my memories threw me back to April 8 when T told me about L being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer over Bloody Marys at Benny’s.

Like, Toad-boy was trying to be so matter-of-fact about it. But I asked if it was a first diagnosis, and he cried. Like, I never saw emotion in him like that before or since.

Larry was gone by midsummer. With a one-line obituary in some local paper. About as much effort as I’d expect from his family, TBH.

By then, Toad and I were toast and he didn’t even tell me. But I followed one of Larry’s beloved neighbors. His whole community loved each other, and they downright exalted him. His absence left a hole in their little G’acres HOA.

Last year took a lot of people from me. This year seems to be following suit. My own health can’t seem to recover long enough before the next hit takes me right back down. It’s like why even get back up when you’re just going to be in the fetal position again soon enough.

From my ball-shaped position on the floor, I think about how Larry listened to his docs. Oh you have cancer? Better get surgery.

Hell that’s how Toad found out. Larry called Toad on the way to JFK to say I’m going into surgery because I have cancer.

Also, nothing explains that family’s communication style better than that sentence right there.

Over the coming weeks, I would hear about how L went to chemo and how his gorgeous gray curls were being left behind in the chemo chair.

How they had to delay scheduled treatments because the first few were so awful on his once-athletic body.

How he started falling all the time and, in true L fashion, acting like sure, I totally wanted to lie down in front of the fireplace that isn’t even on.

I thought about T this week. I never reached out when I knew L died. He obviously didn’t think I needed to hear it from him. And I didn’t want to reopen that line of communication.

I guess what I really wonder is, does Toadster even think about his dad. How this time last year was really the last time he was “good.” How we all hoped he’d pull through this. How we never dreamed this big, strong man would go downhill so fast.

And, maybe just maybe, how I gave him some comfort and support in the worst time of his life.

Larry never wanted me to see him sick. But he said I could come over anyway as long as I gave him time to pull himself together.

I never did see him. I wanted him to have the chance to get stronger.

Something tells me I think about him more than his son does. I hope not. I hope they speak his name and rent boats and go fishing and be good to their neighbors, just as he did.

And wherever L is, I hope his curls have returned and the water is as blue as the men’s eyes in that family.

That’s whiny little bitch, to be clear.

I know this dude who was all about how he’s a nice guy and nobody wants nice guys.

Now he’s on the “I’m an asshole” kick. And let me tell you, I have done nothing to refute that statement.

Case in point, mom asked him an innocent question about an alligator in our pond and he told us to move back to Pennsylvania. Then he asked me what I pay in rent so he can rent his place out at a competitive rate. (I didn’t answer either insult. Or the million others I don’t feel like remembering.)

Then today he sends me some Taylor thing I might want to attend. I look at the cost (hello, maybe offer to TAKE a girl?) and then the venue. And I said, that’s TFG’s church, right?

He unloads on me like WTF is wrong with me for even bringing him into it. (Oh I don’t know, it was JUST all over the news last week that the crooked Bible salesman didn’t go to “his” church on Easter last Sunday?)

I said none of this. All I said was I was trying to place the venue. Sorry.

He said I don’t care if you do or don’t go.

Like, next time you meet one of those “I’m a nice guy and I don’t know why I am still single” types, by ALL means, give me five minutes and I will tell you EVERYTHING that is WRONG with him.

In D.C., we always called it National Airport, after some dolt decided to name it after the Gipper.

Now someone wants to name Dulles after the Real Dullards of Mar-a-Lago, so I guess we’ll be calling this one International Airport, going forward.

Anyway I was just about to post about some other dullard who pissed me right off today. But I talked to my boss about them and I’m actually pleased with how it went.

I still hope karma gets their ass. But, ain’t my hill to die on. I do have life-or-death things to deal with, and maybe more people need those so they don’t pick a fucking fight about every goddamned thing else.

My mom’s friend from high school is on a mission to find me online.

I am not hard to find online. I mean, my three superfans seem to find me even when I try to hide. So I don’t try to hide anymore.

Anyway my mom said that’s just weird and she has enough freak-ass stalkers.

And I said, she HAS MY PHONE NUMBER. Like why does she need to find me online when she can drop a fuckin dime and SEE HOW I AM DOING?

Hilariously, the person actually screenshotted a real page/bio of mine and sent it to my mom. She said this is fake and tell Goddess she needs to get this wiped off the internet.

Um. It’s my LinkedIn page.

Anyway it got me to thinking about how I can never say nobody checks in to see how I am doing. People I don’t WANT to know how I am doing, sure do seem to think they know all about me.

Anyway I normally don’t flounce offline like some of you do. (By some, I mean the resident of Camp JeLoon due west.)

Nor do I generally make declarations that I am not going to do an activity that I am most definitely going to do from a fake account. (Oh hey, you again!)

But fuck it. I don’t want to move into my 40-ish era and still be morbidly curious about what this cherub is writing to try to get a rise out of me.

I don’t care. I say I don’t care. So … don’t care. Period.

Anyway I am declaring it now. I deleted my one fake account. The last thing I saw when I was in it was this cherub claiming I am in their instagram.

Which, I can’t even remember their username and I am glad for that. But hey, after five years if you’re still admonishing me for doing exactly what you do, guess what. It’s ALL yours.

Seriously. Goddamn nonsense. Non. Fucking. Sense. It is never going to change. Ever.

Look.

Feel FREE to troll my socials. My blog. My every breathless move. Enjoy it! And by all means, continue to sew mentions of me into every corner of the frayed fabric of your hat.

When I look in my memories, I don’t see you. But I bet you think about me. A lot.

And I am so happy that you do.

In fact, knowing that I live on (and on. and onnnnn) brings me untold amounts of joy.

And knowing that I now have it in writing that I don’t care to know what insults you publish about me anymore, well.

Gone was any trace of you; I think I am finally clean.