Caterwauling

Last night was my third in a hotel with Bella, normally my happy travel kitty, spending the entire night singing the song of her people.

So with no sleep and also knowing I am working today (which, believe me, happy to have this job — I am not suited for anything else!), I asked the universe to remind me to be grateful.

I ran to Foxtail for breakfast. Which, the coffee was good but my sandwich was as frozen as it was bland. And I got a free drink coupon for my trouble.

As I gnawed on my heated-again-this-time-to-an-infernal-temperature bagel, I saw a woman eyeing the trash can in front of me.

She had a full shopping cart of, well, things she’s clearly picked up.

I was going to throw away the half of the bagel I didn’t feel like busting my teeth on. But I decided to take it to the car so she wouldn’t think it was something good.

Anyway I was not gone six seconds. But the woman somehow conjured up a half-full cup that clearly looked like an iced coffee.

I ran over to her and I said they gave me a coupon for a free drink next door. Go get yourself a fresh cup. I said it’s good for any drink — get the best one!

Man, she lit up the biggest smile under the sun. And I noticed she had perfectly applied bright red-orange lipstick. Like, she might be in dire straits but she was not going to sacrifice her beauty ritual.

Anyway, it wasn’t much and I wouldn’t even have thought twice about it after I left. And in a normal world, I would have NEVER written about it. Too many others do that and I find it tacky AF.

But I had told the universe to remind me to be grateful. And I got almost an instant reply.

I hope she used the card. I would have used it but I was happy to have turned what would have been a useless visit into something good.

I couldn’t wait to get to the HOB for some Voodoo Shrimp tonight.

My food intake was a piece of candied bacon and a mango Dole Whip by that point.

And I would go on to have an entire flight of Dole Whips and a Dole Whip float after.

(Adulting is getting drunk off Dole Whips. And don’t even bother buying the ones in the freezer section. Not even close.)

Anyway I took the last available seat (and maybe I’ll talk about my crazy bar stories from STK last night).

Some woman said she’s so proud of me, being out and about by myself.

She asked where I was from and she said she’s from Jupiter. Which, the last hospital I had Mom in. So, she must have felt me bristle a bit.

Anyway I get this whole reading that, “You have someone on your shoulder” and I said good I hope. She said yes.

She also said she picks up abuse around me. Which … my cats are assholes. Mom’s ex-husband was an abusive shit. I’ve known a few psychos in my life too. Then there’s the hospital system roulette. Spin that wheel, Bob Barker.

She said I have to take some time to rest but I have one massive battle ahead with someone or something.

Great. Don’t any of you take that as a challenge, since she said I will defeat you.

Jen gave me her number. Her man said don’t use it if you don’t want her to stalk you with all these things that come out of her mouth.

After I heard her stage-whispering, “SHE’S ABUSED!” I figured I should take his advice.

She also made him hug me. Which was the best part of the interaction.

I would have been impressed if she said there’s a mother energy around you or something else that might have resonated with me.

I mean, if we’re all reading people here, I looked at her and felt like she might have the gift but she might not know what to do with it other than drink to drown it out.

Ask me how I know that trick.

In any event I might look up her number to see what I can see.

But I am bummed as hell that the Voodoo Shrimp that I used to buy two of at $10 each and then $16 each so Momma and I could each have one is now $24 for one serving. Same five shrimp and three wedges of jalapeño cornbread.

I am also bummed that I am literally going out there and putting myself out there and, while I am generally meeting lovely people,

I am not meeting people who have much in the way of a message from Momma. Or who could be a friend or a date or anything other than what they are — a story to tell.

I’ll have to write about Susan, the gal from Minnesota I met at STK who, yes, knows Tim Walz because who doesn’t. Or Kaia who bought me a glass of Caymus. Or the girl who looked like Kat who told me how to get to Magic Kingdom faster than any of the people on our tram. (She was right!) Or Summer at the KSC badging office who saved us so much time by sharing her spare ticket. And so on.

Anyway, maybe Jen is right. I should be proud of me for putting myself out there. I should also be proud of me for knowing who or what to avoid. Like, well, her. Even her man said it!

So Mom’s 67th birthday is coming up.

She will be forever 66. Young, beautiful, happy, sweet. Forever pretty. Forever loved and lovable and loving.

She deserved so much better than all this. She wanted to be here. She wanted to be my mom. She said she had so much more to teach me. She worried that I won’t be OK or know what to do in situations I haven’t encountered yet.

I mean, I’m 50. I’ll do the best I can. But, yeah, a girl needs her momma. Well, let me rephrase, given some of the mothers I’ve encountered. THIS girl needs HER momma.

I knew I would be a fucking mess. I am. I cannot hold it together and it’s fruitless to try.

So I booked a trip.

Come to find out that one of my staffers also booked a trip. Out of the country.

Our payroll system is strange, so we usually just input our days closer to the time off so we don’t go into deficit.

So when I looked and saw no one else was off, I was relieved and booked my week.

Well.

Person reminded me that they always take off around this time. Which is true and fair.

So I moved all my reservations to the weekends. Well, almost all of them. And I booked an extra four nights to do it.

I’m just going to keep saying well. Because, well, the nonrefundable, pet-friendly hotel just informed me that I cannot bring cats.

I said fine. My mom just passed and I have my cat AND hers, and I am going to need that money back to go someplace else.

Suddenly cats are fine! But you have to pay the dog rate.

Which, thanks to the extra-long stay is going to be upward of $500.

I don’t mind the working. I am the boss and all. And frankly I like my edits when I take over things that aren’t always mine to edit.

Also I am just grateful to have a job. My mental capacity is diminished. They give me all the rope I need to climb back when I’m ready.

But, maybe the whole reason why I cannot get my brain back together is I am not able to fully disengage.

Like our Cocoa Beach trip. It was supposed to be half work, half personal. Turned into all work. And that’s fine because I will get the tax break for it. And frankly I LOVED IT. Had so much fun.

But … I really really really wanted that day at the beach that I didn’t get.

At least with going away for a long time, I will at least have some awesome dinner options when I do log off.

And we worked it out that I will work for 80% of the week and she’ll cover the weekday I wish to be unavailable. Skipping that day’s meeting is vacation enough.

So, with the publishing of this post, I will release my annoyance.

I just needed to crab a bit about it first.

My plan was to tour some houses. Maybe this is all for my higher good that I can’t. Who knows.

I was reading some copy that someone in my company was about to put out.

I saw a glaring error. The dog-whistle, right-wing “Democrat candidate” bullshit.

When I said, hey, it’s DemocratIC when used as an adjective, I got this back:

“Oh, OK. We didn’t know it would be Harris when we wrote this.”

So, Democrat candidate if Biden but Democratic if Harris. Got it.

I cannot believe I have to go through life without my sweet, smart, kind, caring, beautiful, loving mother. Who would have been able to respond beautifully so I don’t have to.

And also, it was so nice to have a friend because I don’t know how to keep all this to myself without imploding like ReMorse does at the slightest perceived (and mostly manufactured) inconvenience.

And not Vytas Reid the weather guy in West Palm Beach. Though seriously fuck that stupid red plaid jacket he wears every goddamned day. Mom and I hated watching him.

Specifically, I say fuck VITAS the nursing home agency in the Palm Beaches.

I got a call from them yesterday, following up on some allegations I made a few months ago.

They tried to call several times. But it was only, um, last weekend that I could even admit publicly that my mother had died.

Also this guy who calls usually asks for my mom by name. So I just say no she can’t come to the phone right now.

Other times he calls and refers to me by my last name. Like yesterday, he asked for Mom and I said she’s not here. He said oh ok is this (last name).

My reply was one of my trademark exasperated sighs.

Anyway he said he has done an investigation and he’s been missing my statement on what was reported to him.

Honestly I’d forgotten about it all. But hey, since we are here reopening the wound, pop some corn, Sparky. I got issues.

I put Mom in the hospital last August. The third or fourth hospital system at that point, I’d lost count.

Anyway, the pain was uncontrollable and would never be controlled. And the treatment options were all pretty terrible.

But rather than be human, the medical director said welp fine then, call hospice. Have a good rest of your life.

Just kidding. She wasn’t that nice to say have a nice anything.

Mom was appalled. She felt OK. Hospice, really?

After Cocoa died in January, I could tell something changed in Mom. I mean, I have never been the same, either. But she had said something like she wishes she could have gone first, so Cocoa could have comforted me through that.

I mean, she also said I’d probably miss Cocoa more. Which … maybe I do. But in a totally different way.

Hindsight being what it is, I think things happened in the right order. Mom was here to comfort me through all my big losses. So I was better equipped to handle losing her.

Anyway, in March, it was clear that the pain was getting worse. Our last car ride was in March 24. I still have the parking receipt from Deerfield Beach. 3/24/24 at 4:24 p.m.

I should have played the lottery. But at that point, we were all basically on autopilot.

Second week of April, I called hospice. There are really only two options here, and the other one had even worse reviews than VITAS.

Justin was my main nurse. He was useless. He liked to sit here and stare at the water and talk about himself and play on his phone.

When I got the bill from Medicare last week for “skilled nursing services” — for over a thousand dollars an hour — I laughed. The second good laugh I got this summer.

I told the guy who called me yesterday, “You guys sent me a request for a donation last month. It was the first I laughed all summer. And I am tempted to call Medicare and report fraud.”

Justin did not provide a thousand dollars’ worth of care once a week. I was the one doing all the bathing, lifting, wound-dressing.

He did not do SHIT.

He did not give me supplies. He told me Medicare pays for supplies and he did not get me anything I asked for. Save for the one day he fished a pair of XS gloves out of his trunk.

I told the caller, there is NOTHING about me that is extra small. Fuck this idiot.

Also, I said your doctor on call in the Boynton office is a joke. His name is Ichabod or ItchyBalls or something. Anyway I said this guy stood in my house and took calls from other patients. Has anyone mentioned HIPAA to him.

And what’s worse is how he and Justin covered for each other. It took eight days to get pain medication ordered. EIGHT DAYS.

Both of these fools blamed each other. Justin said the doctor is new. (To doctoring?) The doctor said Justin is busy.

I know Justin ain’t making no thousand dollars an hour. Hell Justin even said I should pursue nursing because you really only need a pulse to pass the meager requirements in Florida. And there’s job security because there are so many sick people and no one wants to work in the field.

I said my cousin did hospice for her mom, and they would get pain meds at midnight, the day they asked.

I said you run a clown show there. And then for Justin to have the nerve to ask me out for tacos while my mother was trying to tell him about her pain?

I don’t even care about the getting solicited in my own home. Someone should tell his wife and kids though.

Also like I told the caller, I’m over here ordering supplies off Amazon and groceries off Instacart and food for delivery.

I didn’t tell him, but since my memories are coming back to me now, there was a good three weeks where I did not set foot outside of my house other than to buy pain patches at Walgreens.

VITAS thought I was problematic because I stopped letting Justin in. I always had an excuse. Mom told me to tell him — and eventually Renie at the Boynton office — I’m always on calls and don’t have time to entertain this joker.

Eventually Renie sent a different nurse, Mariel. And I loved her.

Mariel actually texted on her off days to ask how Miss Robin was. And did she need anything.

And I’d get the pills or whatever in the next day or two. Whenever that Spanish mail-order pharmacy with the “empanada” sounding name could figure it out.

And then there was Sarah the night nurse. Who arrived exactly five minutes after Mom died. Not her fault. I had called the Boynton office and she drove up from Boca.

I tell you, everything in Boynton is cursed. I knew we were doomed when that was our main office. Real talk, if I could have moved us to any other city, I would have.

In any event, I confessed my rage to Sarah. After she helped me with the funeral director and all that, she went and reported it all.

Good girl.

Anyway I told the caller I don’t have plans to pursue any sort of litigation. Justin and ItchyBalls were absolute failures, but Mariel and Sarah were good to me when I needed them most.

The caller said he would talk to Justin. That this is unprofessional and unacceptable.

I said I really don’t care what you do. But as a supervisor, I concur that you have to address bad behavior.

I did emphasize that my mom was LUCKY to have me to take care of her. I feel bad for people who have to let in these idiots and never get their supplies or the high-price-tag care that Medicare thinks they are getting.

My guess is they probably don’t like Justin and want to fire him, and they needed me to do help them do it.

My guess is ItchyBalls isn’t going anywhere.

OH! So Mom passed on Father’s Day at 2:47 a.m. That’s when she took her last breath.

She opened her eyes super briefly, closed them, and was gone.

After the insanity that was the previous three hours, it was nice to see her at peace.

Sarah got stuck at the broken front gate (heavy sigh) at 3 a.m. so I had to run down and let her in.

I mean, why not let Mom down one last time, right? Me and the HOA.

Sarah pronounced her at 3:25 a.m.

The undertaker was sweet and cute and he said I could have all the time I wanted with her. But I said the best way to honor her is to get her the fuck out of this place before all the fraggles wake up.

By 5 a.m., I was alone for good.

Sarah said VITAS offers caregiver support for a year. I said please tell them never to call me.

I got a call Monday afternoon. The CNA I had been waiting for because I was breaking Mom’s and my backs with bathing attempts, was at my doorstep.

They never told her Mom had passed.

I don’t blame her. I blame that fucking clown show that is VITAS Hospice in Boynton Beach, Florida. With locations in Delray Beach, Boca Raton and West Palm Beach. For the Google crawlers.

I didn’t get her ashes back for well over a week. The funeral director happens to live in this complex (trademark heavy sigh) and he finally called me to say we cannot get a doctor here for some reason.

OK I grew up in the funeral industry and I never, first of all, had to have a medical professional make the call for me. And second, she’s been in a freezer for how many days and you need a doctor to tell you she’s dead?

Well.

So anyway a month ago I needed to use her death certificate to close her bank account, as TD had frozen it and I was like nope, MINE.

The doctor’s name on the death certificate …

ItchyBalls.

They had to dig up this motherfucker to fail my mother one more time?!

And no fucking wonder I had to wait so long. Where the fuck was he, itching his balls in someone else’s house?!

OH MY GOD I HATE VITAS HOSPICE IN BOYNTON BEACH. HATE IT HATE IT HATE IT SO MUCH BURN IT TO THE FUCKING GROUND.

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!!!