Caterwauling

I took a selfie a couple weeks ago with a giant jalapeño margarita.

This was before the nice guys bought me tequila and the one said how I had deep sadness about me.

It was the first selfie I posted since March, when Mom’s health took a turn. Because I looked even sadder in all the previous ones.

This was the first selfie I took after she left. I went to the Triple Moon Tour and the seat next to me randomly opened up like Momma sat down. I had to capture this just to say I am glad you are still with me, Mom.

Sadness rides shotgun with me now, friends.

I did get a rare moment of happiness last week when an old friend from my Phillips years popped up.

I might have reached out first, because I saw something that made me think of him.

He had already seen it and was planning to send it to me.

He also said he would buy me Casamigos shots.

I said what?

I had NO IDEA that this person was still my Faceypages friend. Tom sold the company the same year Facebook was created. Back when you friended everyone you ever met.

Sneaky boy.

Also his message. Um, swoon? Swoon-ish, for real.

Also, what a breath of fresh air from the friend requests I get every now and again from someone who defriended me across every platform.

Someone who cussed me out via text and who pops up every August for some reason.

(I was in my “1989” era when I knew you, buddy. “Folklore” and especially “August” is about someone else. You can have “Black Dog” from TTPD, though. Maybe “Smallest Man Who Ever Lived” but I think that’s a better fit for Scott Borchetta/Scooter Braun and another SB I won’t yet name.)

Ed Kelce sums up your obsession in five words.

Someone whose posts I don’t miss because they whined and complained and refused to take any life advice offered.

In case I wasn’t clear on Xitter, Sparky, I don’t miss you like you miss me.

I don’t even THINK about you.

Talk to that dope who’s paying your bills.

And give me a fucking refund for my Chicago trips. Cheap fucker.

Moving on.

I put up another selfie yesterday. Well, two, as I do different ones for Faceypages and Instagram since I limit access to me on the former and therefore I’m a bit freer.

I thought it looked OK. Of course, I was in a dark Italian restaurant and I didn’t have my glasses.

And I could hear my mom saying, “Wait till you’re pretty again to put up a selfie.”

Not that she would ever say I wasn’t pretty. I was always her favorite thing to look at and talk to.

But there were a few times when she told me to reconsider a selfie. She knew Cindy — who not only couldn’t take a good selfie if she tried, bragged about not trying — would rejoice at seeing puffy eyes and no makeup.

Anyway, Mom’s voice comes through all the time like this. I hope it always does. I hope I always hear her above everyone else who has the audacity to not be dead instead.

As I looked at my stupid little pics with non-bleary eyes last night, I thought about taking them down.

But really, I wear my sadness like a badge. In place of the obituary I’ve never written.

I don’t want to hear from all her idiot exes who pretended they wanted to be a dad to me.

Especially this one.

Also, since we’re talking about my superfans, THAT is what’s worthy of the #curlsofinstagram hashtag. (WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE, BTW.)

And I don’t want her jealous high school friends to write about it giddily in their alumni group now that the beautifulest and sweetest one — their competition — is now gone.

I’ve barely told anyone, though a few astute Faceypages friends picked up the sudden lack of interaction from Mom on my wall.

My final post on hers.

She last used Facebook on my birthday. Of all the gifts she gave me, and those were plentiful, the fighting to stay alive for it so that I would hate a different day is one of the best.

My friend Jim lost his dad on his birthday in the middle of May. He was planning to take the day off to go with Dad to the casino. Now Jim is sitting on Steelers season tickets and faced with either selling them or taking his hippie druggie uncle.

We got to commiserating over that. I said I do talk to one of Mom’s friends. And while I appreciate that she texts me every time she thinks of Mom, I don’t want to hear from her. I want my Mom. And Jim said the same thing — the uncle calls him but it will never be the same. Not even close.

So, while Jim’s birthday is ruined forever, for me it’s Father’s Day.

Which honestly was always shitty and don’t even get me started that my bio dad and his mother and his other two stupid kids are all breathing just fine.

And don’t get me started on my stepdad. Who I forgot about except for Mucinex commercials since he looks like that snot.

But I saw “It Ends With Us” yesterday, and boy did I get flashbacks.

My Momma was SO STRONG for getting us away from him. Thank god for her and my grandparents.

It’s not that I choose violence for Butch; I choose justice. And I pray it’s the same thing.

The days between my birthday and Father’s Day are a blur.

It was painful and ugly and beautiful all at the same time.

How she died pretty after all that is beyond me. But of course she did.

I was OK in the immediate aftermath. The front gate broke (of course it did) so I had to run downstairs to let in all the people I needed to let in at 3 a.m.

The undertaker told me to leave the room so he could load her up. I said nope, I grew up in this business. And I helped with the lift.

I told mom I got her a cute undertaker. And I watched her do a “Once Around” in our ridiculous circle.

Which, I know she would appreciate and I wanted so badly to TELL her how ironic it was.

Holly Hunter and Richard Dreyfus would get it.

But, she was off, taken by something she saw coming fast and she told me, “Something’s coming for me. I gotta go.”

My OK never lasts long. My friend Tony checks in every day. He said you’ll cry every day for three months. Eventually you’ll get to the point where you’re just deeply sad but the tears won’t come so easily.

Well, two months in, he’s not wrong.

I read a really great article about “When the Caregiving Ends.” It was helpful.

(I am sure Cindy, who put her husband on blast by tweeting that he’s learning to be a better caregiver, will memorize it like the malignant narcissist she is. You have NO idea what it’s like to be a caregiver. Though it’s easier when the recipient is a caring person. And, you know, dying.)

My cousin sent me a book from a psychic about receiving signs. I get a lot of signs, so I haven’t been in a rush.

It’s 619 for my grandfather.

But there was one point in the forward that I actually DID stop crying.

She said what if your loved one’s final, most loving gift to you is to stop having you watch their suffering? To stop having to worry and rush to hospitals and just sit and breathe for a while?

Anyway, I didn’t want my first real post about my mom to be about everyone else. But as she would say, when was anything NOT about me (Goddess)?

That’s where the real guilt was. I worked too much, too many hours and had too much going on to be much of a companion. She was stuck in the house and had to be quiet/out of sight for my endless stream of video calls.

I have to thank them for letting me be barely effective for five months now. Though I should have given her this “off” time, not myself.

I got to see Cocoa Beach. And drink everything in it. Margarita Tour 2024.

Welp. I just moved my desk to “her” spot. It’s a nice spot with a great view. But I feel even more like shit for doing it.

However, here’s the rub. Her friend (that I was just kvetching about) said to me, don’t feel guilty. You’ll maybe feel closer to her there.

Huh.

She’s … not wrong.

Packing up a house means unpacking first. Oy.

I mean, she’s still not Mom. And I still don’t trust anyone enough to say the how and why of it all.

But, I’ve had conversations and made connections that I never would have.

That I didn’t have time and bandwidth for.

The Psychology Today article really hits home because, as the person directly responsible for everything, you will forever wonder what you could have done to improve quantity and quality of life for your loved one.

I wish I could have added that time to when she was still good. More trips, more anything. Not to the end. God, not to the end.

She didn’t want to go. She didn’t believe she’d go. I don’t even think she accepted it till whatever came for her, came.

I do have some fun ghost stories to tell. I’ll save those for another day. But, I had a house full.

I am pretty sure I got a hug from my grandfather. I mean, I was reasonably sure, but when Mom asked the next day (her final day) if her Daddy was here, well. Chills.

Anyway. I’m at the point where I either go join her or figure out how to extend my own quality/quanity of life.

I’m leaning toward embracing my “Reputation” era or maybe even my “Vigilante Shit” era.

I have zero time for anything that isn’t going to make me happy or bring me peace.

What I do know is I literally lost my better half. And this insane post is my origin story for what comes next.

Happy August to those who celebrate!

And a happy five-year anniversary to this tweet.

I call bullshit because phones would have been ringing all over town. Because they knew Martina McBride’s music before I was ever born. And they maybe typed her name too, which obviously gives them ownership rights.

Just like the bakery MY friend owned, how they had to go on and on and on about how they went there FIRST. Jesus. I didn’t even mention when he sold the place — it was hilarious watching her cling to this absolute line of nonsense that it was hers. Honey, KEEP IT if it means that much to you. Unlike you, I was going to support my friend, not for Twitter fodder.

Anyway. I figured this week marks a milestone, so I should commiserate the anniversary, in case Hellsa still hasn’t let it go and needs someone to share it with.

Oh, what a valiant roar

What a bland goodbye

The coward claimed he was a lion

I’m combing through the braids of lies

“I’ll never leave” …

“Never mind”

I met a guy Friday. He bought me half a bottle’s worth of Casamigos shots.

This after he said I smile a lot and it’s beautiful, but he can sense deep sadness behind it.

It felt good to be seen after the worst thing that could ever happen to me, happened.

I’d thought The Worst Thing had happened already. I had said, this is it. This is the worst I ever could have imagined, and it’s here.

That’s because I thought I was ready for the next part.

Now, I’m not saying the universe has run out of terrible things. Please. I’ve been a citizen of earth for 50 years. I could be luckier but I could be much worse off; I know this.

But, I can honestly say nothing scares me anymore.

There was one lesser worry in my head, that all this would change me for the worse.

To be fair, I’ve changed. Weaker in some ways, harder in others. I have more grace for those who are hurting. And I scream “die” — often loudly — to those who NEED TO.

Just ask butterface on a bike. Who needs to quit calling attention to that face when she flaps that yap.

As Anias Nin once said, “There were two women in me, at least.”

Today, there’s a whole goddamned coven.

Anyway, my pact with my mom was to tell no one.

Everyone let us down in the “before” and “during.” Let’s not bring any more disappointment here into the “after.”

I thought this Anais quote about submission to the enemy is particularly profound. And timely.

One of my, I wouldn’t say fears rather than EXPECTATIONS, was that as soon as word got out, the degenerates would rejoice.

I could see at least one dig her dusty dancing shoes out of mothballs and do an uncoordinated conga over the fact that every string holding me together had broken.

Knowing this was coming, I canceled my subscriptions to her issues. One by one, I eradicated the accounts I used to view her tired nonsense.

“10 months sober … I’m never going to risk it,” as Queen Taylor promised.

I’ve kept everything as “on the DL” as I could. That’s the beauty of suffering. No one wants to go near it, lest it remember that they’re doing OK right now and maybe they should ache too.

So when David said he could see the deep sadness in me, I felt seen in a way I haven’t since that miserable May 16, 2021, day.

That’s the thing about strangers. I tell them more than anyone in my orbit.

Maybe that’s why I crave a nomadic life so much …

I get what I need from people, give them what they need, and we all move about the country or the planet or the solar system. Both unburdened and with perspective we never otherwise would have gotten.

Also, get used to “space” metaphors and jokes here.

I spent a week at NASA — not at the visitor’s center, but with scientists — something I would NEVER have been able to do without a connection the universe made for me.

My takeaway is I have nothing stopping me from shooting for the stars. Not that I ever did. In fact, my lone rocket booster is gone.

But, low orbit is still achievable. Maybe not today. But, you know, before they shoot my cremains into space. Or maybe sooner. Let’s hope.

Which I’d write in my “Fuck, I’m Dead! Now What?” planner if ever that stupid Chinese company that took my money for it a month ago would SEND IT.

I’d say the worst part of all this, but there are SO many worst parts and this isn’t even close, but it’s the happier moments. They don’t stop coming.

I mean, great, right? No one can function in constant misery.

At least, we DID but that all came to a horrible but somehow still beautiful end.

I do feel bad in a way to those who will read through these lines and find joy for all the wrong reasons. First of all, die. Second, die painfully. And third, seriously, go to hell covered in black bloody vomit.

Anyway, I only even met David because I was shooting for the stars (the gym) and parked at the cantina next door. Low orbit wasn’t so bad.

We agreed to meet there, same time next week. Which I am loath to publish because ol’ dirty doc martens will probably show up.

I do a lot of that, you know. Hiding where I am until after I’ve been there.

But you know what? Show up. I would like to have a word. Read closely and you’ll find it in this post.

I have surrendered to enough enemies for two lifetimes.

If I only have 10 years left, I’m going to make them the best of my fucking life. And if I have 30 or 40, even fucking better.

“Momma says get my ass to church
Daddy says get my ass to work
Doctor says I gotta give up on these smokes
Everybody’s got something to say
About how I gotta change my ways
But I got something to say of my own.”

Not that my momma would do anything but heap praise on me — which, I wonder why the fuck anyone else feels they are entitled to do otherwise — but, the rest of this rings true.

Everyone got something to say about how I manage myself, my life, my staff, my finances, my conduct. But I am not seeing exemplary behavior anywhere but from the woman who brought me into this world.

And the whole lot of youse combined still don’t hold a candle to her.

“There’s something about this Sunday
It’s a most peculiar gray
Strolling down the avenue
That’s known as A1A.”

I’m in this “barely leaving the house era.” Which, you would think, would mean I’m working and cleaning and being wildly productive.

Well, I’m working and cleaning but you wouldn’t know it. I’m also drinking a lot of wine and cleaning the same five things over and over again. Cat bowls, certain pieces of laundry, etc.

Not quite the life as Jose depicted it. But whatcha gonna do.

“Now I must confess
I could use some rest
I can’t run at this pace very long
Yes, it’s quite insane
I think it hurts my brain
But it cleans me out.
And then I can go on.”

I was writing my newsletter today — and editing another one — and I wrote in this Jimmy Buffett song to both.

I realized how long I’ve been going without sleep, for whatever reasons. And while I eliminated a few of those reasons, the reasons for which I eliminated them have gotten more pervasive.

I’m tired, yo.

I was so motherfucking tired yesterday that I clocked out at 1, scheduled some unscheduled PTO for the afternoon, then crawled over to the couch with a full bottle of Zin and proceeded to have the best nap of my life.

Which brought my total hours slept for Thursday up to … five.

I’m not mad. In the angry sense anyway. Patience and bits of my mind, oh yeah.

But hey, I had a ghost either pass through me or hug me last night. Which was weirdly exciting TBH.

Honestly I was just asking it for privacy and I think it gave me a very long hug.

“And the hurricane with my name, when it came
I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away
Barricaded in the bathroom with a bottle of wine
Well, me and my ghosts, we had a hell of a time”

I figured it was my grandfather. I started singing “Stuck Like Glue,” which he used to sing to me when I’d pop up to Pittsburgh to see him and Mom.

And for a tiny, tiny moment, all felt right in the world. Both when I’d surprise them with visits, and when I got my ghost hug.

And I was perfectly sober. I do my 1-2 glasses of wine at dinner now, so I can be awake at night.

I have this strange feeling — it’s comforting strange, not fucked-up strange — that everything is going to be OK.

Eventually, not for the foreseeable future. And for me, not really anyone else.

That’s comforting and disconcerting at the same time.

Not that I can explain it or even want to. But … I know the road ahead is a haute mess, but I don’t have to be one myself.

No real point to this post. I’m bored so I am going to end it now.

Fuck me up, Florida!!!

“They say my nest egg ain’t ready to hatch yet
They keep holding my feet to the fire
They call it paying the price
So that one day in life
I’ll have what I need to retire.”

Kenny didn’t play “The Life” at the Hard Rock Hollywood last month. But he did play “Knowing You” and that was even better.

In any event, I turned on No Shoes Radio this morning, and this lyric was the first thing I heard.

Funny, I had logged into my retirement account on Friday. I wanted to see if I stay at this job another 10 (yeesh) or 20 (gah) years, what would my retirement account look like.

That answer is pretty good. As long as I don’t spend a penny ever again.

I told Momma how much money I’d have after 20 years. She learn to live cheap and get out much sooner than that.

I don’t know what I would do in a world without her advice. I hope I always have a way of hearing it.

The timing is perfect. I always get into “let me apply for All The Jobs” around review time anyway.

Like, I know 2023-’24 wasn’t my most productive year work wise. But I look back at two decades’ worth of posts and remember when life was so much worse.

Like when I had to either drive her car with no brakes or my car with a dead-ish battery — and I had to get AAA to come out to the fucking sticks to jump my car three nights in a row, 40 miles from home — because I gave that company too much and didn’t give a fig about my own safety.

So to hear that, say, I am disorganized — when my ENTIRE JOB is reprioritizing all day long based on what’s happening in the markets and what my experts want to do about it, not to mention to accommodate whatever emergency arises that, according to the Eisenhower principle, is less important than urgent — and also I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in three years for reasons best left unexplained here — well.

Maybe if two-ish people didn’t find it so enjoyable to measure us not on our ability to read minds 90% of the time, but rather on the 10% we didn’t/couldn’t do it, our review scores would be a lot less strange.

Let’s just say “a 10 with a 2” isn’t just a Kenny Chesney song. It’s how I rate on helping member care/sales vs. people whose name rhyme with feather. Which … what do THEY score?!?!

I was telling my cousin today, I love my work so much. I love what’s left of my team. But even that appears to be problematic. Which, yes maybe I am more of a friend than a supervisor.

But when you have Linda fucking Blair spewing pea soup all over the place, maybe consider it’s my strategy to let people know they are loved and supported.

In any event, I always wonder if I should hit publish or do I have to wonder when Shindy or Psycho are going to make sure people who are responsible for my economic well-being (e.g., paycheck) perceive me as problematic.

Which, honestly no outside opinions have ever swayed an employer. Not for those twits’ lack of trying.

“Somewhere over Texas
I thought of my Lexus
And all the stuff I work so hard for
And all the things that I’ve gathered
From climbing that ladder
Didn’t make much sense anymore.”

Now I do think they know I am special. I don’t let anyone or anyone fail. If they do, it wasn’t for lack of trying on my part.

But, do they know HOW special?

Like, I look at Taylor Swift, who succeeds because she wants what she has, more than anyone else. Well, I wanted to succeed here, and I did.

But … is that what I should want in the future?

I mean, my little retirement account could be nothing to sniff at in a bull market. But that relies on continued contributions.

But … once I can get out of this house and this dark little kitchen where I work, something tells me it’s going to be hard to get me back into said kitchen.

And maybe that’s a metaphor for all the rights that keep getting stripped of women right now, and maybe not. Or maybe it’s a metaphor AND a reality.

In any event, I do think I get all the rope and room I need to “do me,” personally, anyway.

Life’s been hard and it’s getting harder. And everyone’s smart enough to give me all the room I need. Would I get that anywhere else … or would I get more? Or, somehow, less?

And how willing am I to find out? Right now, not really. But in a year? Ask me again.

Yesterday, I saw a man I thought, this could be a soulmate.

Note I say “a” soulmate. I don’t believe we are entitled to just one. Rather, I think there are a good dozen or so people who float in and out of our orbit. And we either don’t notice or appreciate them at the time.

Well.

I was fresh out the slammer shower, standing around waiting to pick up a food order. So was he.

He was all smiles. Like, just a genuinely pleasant person.

Good hair, good skin, good posture, good bone structure. Minding his own business. Wildly courteous to the cashier.

Like, my heart saw him and said THIS is who you deserve.

I was trying so hard to get up the nerve to simply say something about how his smile brightened up my day. But I couldn’t. So I just admired him.

I wonder if people see me like that. I’m usually in my head, singing a song or observing the world or both. Do people stop and say, wow, that girl is having fun and what a wonderful sight that is.

(I mean, I know better. If it’s at my apartment compound, they actively try to destroy that peace and joy.)

(Oh you don’t like having your peace and joy disturbed, Butterface without her bike?)

In any event, we both got our food and jumped in our cars and left. Whether he even noticed me, I would doubt because I looked like Video Killed the Instagram Star. Not memorable in a good way, for sure.

Anyway, I went out last night. Or, as Kenny Chesney says in his No Shoes Radio intro to the song, “We went OUTTT last night.”

Had a dream in the wee hours that I think was loosely based on the Hot Boy.

I dreamed that I met someone sweet and good looking. Whoever I was standing with said oh my god go talk to him. And I said, “Why on earth would someone that good look twice at me?”

OK, insecurities ahoy.

What’s good about the dream is I said, “Wait a minute. Most men turn out to be complete losers anyway. Why am I assuming that I am the loser in this scenario? I am pretty freaking amazing. And if he turns out to be a dud, at least I don’t spend my life wondering.”

I swear, if I could just be the girl in my dreams, I’d be set.

Anyway, I did introduce myself to the guy, and we had an impromptu coffee date. And it was wonderful.

I returned to my friends, as we were going to an event together after. Turns out, HE was a featured speaker at the event. And I was just so charmed that, instead of practicing his speech, he didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to meet ME.

Anyway, I am not going to be hanging around said restaurant IRL in hopes of seeing this adorable creature.

I missed my chance because I was feeling sad in general and very #curlsofinstagram (e.g., my hair looked fried/frizzy instead of in golden ringlets) in particular.

I wonder if the dream was meant to tell me, hey dumbass, you blew your opportunity to brighten someone’s day … and maybe your own.

“As I said in my letters
Now that I know better
I will never lose my baby again.”

I don’t think about Toad much anymore.

But then with me turning half a hundred yesterday, I remembered turning 49 … wondering where the fuck my bf was.

He surfaced a couple days later. Not even …

“With a half-ass, “Sorry, how you been?”

Why do you do it?

Do you, just hate losin’?

Here you come again

Who could it be

It’s 3 a.m., no caller ID.”

He never was one for lying. He had been pulling double shifts at the police station for months and worrying about his dad.

And even though he was OFF FOR MY BIRTHDAY, he was out having margaritas by himself at his favorite Mexican places.

Megan Moroney is in heavy rotation here now.

Odds of him cheating, honestly, were slim. He wasn’t a great man. His winning attribute really was the fact that he preferred being alone. So, I finally let him.

In hindsight, I know the full sentence is “alone to drink.” But maybe he’s gotten better since work eased up and his dad isn’t suffering anymore.

Anyway, that’s how I rung in 49.

With expectations low, I asked the cards literally what was in them for half a hundred.

It’s … not bad.

The Emperor and I don’t have a lot of love between us. I’ve never connected with the number 4. Nor do I have much use for the ultimate patriarchal card. Even though this one is hella cute.

That said, he does represent structures. Ones I would like to burn down.

But, hey, I get it. If I want to succeed in a career, I’m no Taylor Swift. I don’t get to break the rules and write my own.

The Lenormand pull was a fascinating one: The Moon and Stars.

I showed it to Mom and she said that’s my wish for you — the moon and stars. The cards know.

I haven’t used my Pixie deck in a while. But I just charged a bunch of decks under this week’s full moon. And a couple salient points came back to me.

The Moon in Lenormand isn’t as sketchy as in tarot. It means a long-awaited wish coming true. Could be a promotion at work. Or could be a love interest/partner appearing from the shadows.

GURL. Give me the promotion ANY day of the week.

I figure I may only have 15 or 20 good years left. Maybe 25 if I beat my ancestral odds. Hook me UP with some money so I can enjoy a few of them, hey?

I don’t really know much about the Star in Lenormand anymore. If memory serves, it means not to push things. Just hang out and keep grinding. No rash decisions or moves.

Let the game come to you, if one were to quote a recently disgraced member of the fin pub community. One I could have told you 15 years ago was going to be problematic.

In any event.

This wasn’t a bad little birthday. Didn’t do anything but drink a $50 bottle of Cabernet and eat icing all day. Oh and I streamed Taylor Swift’s last Lisbon show and sobbed as “Long Live” was mashed up with “YOYOK” during the surprise set.

THAT’S MY JAM.

Publix cakes are ass and the only thing they get right is the flavor of the icing. Even if the decoration was not QUITE what I ordered.

Asking a dopey white man to give me “Taylor Swift / Lover album cover vibes but with a Speak Now lyric in purple” was always going to be a risk. But, it was good enough.

I may still set fire to the company that my friend paid big money to, to deliver a surprise gift by 3 p.m. that, a day later, I still don’t have. Fuck, I called the company myself and said refund her NOW.

So my friend ordered something else … at 10 p.m. … and that delivery guy got lost in my compound. I would say hilarity ensued but I was so frustrated and so hungry and the guy brought beer and left the price tag on the flowers.

My conclusion was that I just need to NOT “Speak Now.” And that’s the concept I need to apply to everything apparently.

Get back in the kitchen like No. 7 in Kansas City wants all us women to do. I mean, sure we can get mad at him (and we should), but face it. He’s just saying the quiet part out loud that all the Emperor figures in our lives want us to do.

Seriously, YOU WONDER WHY WE FUCKING PICK THE BEAR EVERY GODDAMNED TIME?!?!

I pick my cubby bear Cocoa every time.

This was from 2020 when we celebrated my birthday together for the first time.

I miss that baby so much.

OTD 2021.

I asked Mom to blow out my candle with me. Her wish was that we get more good days together.

Bella’s wish was to get the prettiest rose on the cake. Which she enjoyed thoroughly.

Anyway I got my wish. That’s all that matters. I will keep it to myself, though.

It’s funny. I used to be so busy or, at least, doing my best to look busy on past birthdays. This year, my bragging right is that I didn’t do much of anything. In fact, it was even more chaotic than I wanted.

But, hey, we made it to the other side. And that is really the best part.

My do-over for my birthday. A yummy peanut butter pie.

Can’t stay 30-ish forever.

What a decade it was.

I don’t know about the start of an age or just aging.

Thanks to my cousin and Eras tour buddy for the best birthday gift in the world!

I’m so depressed, I act like it’s my birthday every day
I’m so obsessed with him but he avoids me like the plague
I cry a lot but I am so productive, it’s an art
You know you’re good when you can even do it
With a broken heart

I have a lot of emotions on this day and none have to do with the calendar.

I miss my Cocoa. I am glad I have Mom and a job and one sane relative.

But life comes at you fast. Not fast enough, then too fast.

But this giant cake feels like forever. So there’s that.

When I was in school, elementary on up, I was never shy about letting a boy know when I liked him.

I always regretted it. I always got made fun of. And he was never worth the ridicule. But that was the thing. I never felt embarrassed or anything less than entitled to my thoughts.

Today I got my performance review. It was an interesting mix of 2s and 5s. Like, the extremes were mostly accurate, and kind of hilarious when you think about it.

A few things are stuck in my mind. And I will be up all night ruminating about those. But, Mom overheard me and she said you stood the hell UP for yourself. So, at least there’s that.

BUT.

While it’s fair to tell me I am way too casual (I believe I’d call it loose-lipped) with my staff, I don’t really look back with much regret.

Cringe, sure. I probably shouldn’t have, say, confessed how much I don’t like someone. Who has been a complete jerk to me publicly.

Dave always said I wear my heart on my sleeve. I wouldn’t pretend to be on board with some big fucked up changes six jobs ago. Eventually, I did get on board. I just needed to vent about it first.

(Also I got all fives for loyalty. Again.)

Anyway, maybe I won’t lose any sleep. I am loyal to me.

I say when I like the boy. And I say when I hate the girl.

I am QUITE attuned to my judgments. And they were accurate at the time I said them.

I know my lesson probably should be to just do my job and not let my guard down.

But I think my lesson is to continue to be my authentic self. I don’t apologize for liking XYZ or kissing ABC in class. (Oops!)

Nor do I cease to enjoy the Taylor Swift treadmill video when she faceplants. For reasons best left unexplained.

I’m turning 30-ish this weekend, which I am sure mINDY will celebrate wherever she is. Speaking of people I have An Opinion about. And people I got too close to.

I got too close to everyone, really. Icarus flies too close to the sun, too often. And most of these people have put the “Ick” in Icarus.

But honestly, I get close — I get what I need out of people, even if it’s not enough but it’s all they can give — and they flame out. Sucks but I don’t expect much more.

So whoever is snitching … or more likely, the AI is betraying me … whatever. I am not going to be any less me to appease anyone.

Maybe the lesson was that I should have changed the first thousand times it got me in trouble. Or maybe the lesson is to say deuces and say hey, it’s the rest of YOU and the things that MAKE ME CRAZY that need to change, eh?