Caterwauling

I don’t have bad days at work. But I have the occasional weird hour.

I got an email from my pal, chastising me for daring to edit.

Let me be clear. Edit is in my title.

I wrote about this before, of this one giving me something to run that I wrote before. And then some other entity made a bad edit to it.

Well, I made what I thought was a good edit to it (saying where they are based, which was incidentally useful to the next part of the story).

Anyway, today I got a big fat tsk tsk for adding where they are based as they are not actually based there.

OK.

And a big “stop editing their shit.” My words of course.

I said well ok fine but remember that creative/incorrect edit they made that YOU caught?

And I said I’ll remove it on the website.

Email comes back an hour later, “I don’t see it on the website.”

*blink*

I hopefully won’t think about this ever again after I hit publish. But at a time when I’m getting my own performance evaluated, it’s really really hard to keep these hard discussions focused on me when there’s that.

Well, the first New Year’s.

Honestly the first anything, really, without Momma.

I mean, I’ve had six and a half months of firsts. First day without her, first night without her, first week/month/season, etc.

Her first birthday not on the planet was pretty awful. That’s why I spent it in Orlando. And the day was still sucky AF, though I met Matt the next day and that ended up in me seeing New York for Christmas.

First Halloween sucked because she used to decorate the house so spectacularly. But even that kind of fizzled out bit by bit over the past couple years.

First Thanksgiving sucked but honestly I forget most of it. I know I went to DaDa, my happy place. But that time of year was always the anniversary of losing Grampy. And before that, it was celebrating, then mourning, his wedding anniversary. So, never my favorite time.

Christmas was HARD. I was kind of thinking I was OK but, nope.

At least I got back to Orlando, and much better weather, for Christmas.

Once again, I cried my way around the world, as I’d done in September, but this time without the rain to mask it.

So here I am at New Year’s. And honestly feeling a bit less worse than I expected.

There’s still the whole, “How on earth is there a year Mom and Cocoa weren’t alive in?! HOW??!!!”

But I did end up getting some pork and kraut. She’d normally want hot dogs, but I went with chicken sausage. And she’d normally prepare 10 sides to provide color and variety. I went with blackeyed peas and tossed the pork in to flavor them.

And none of Momma’s mashed potatoes, which were magical. So was her kraut. Mine was just OK. Just “arright,” as her mom would have said.

I didn’t take a pic of my plate. She would have been proud of me for trying, but she’d definitely say that monochromatic mess looks like a Cindy or a Kelly (not MY Kelly) special. Boring/bland/beige for the first and just plain weird for the second.

I wonder if Kelly (again not mine) is still making goofy cakes and shit. I miss peeking in on that social media. We definitely did the Statler & Waldorf thing, mom and me.

That’s what I’m missing most. Not the good food, though mine was definitely “arright” to her “holy shit, yum.” It’s the having some wine and cackling like two bitches.

She always called us two bitches. I think that might have originated with my grandmother over something arright. But I don’t really remember.

Anyway, I wouldn’t say it was my favorite holiday. But it wasn’t my worst, either. For that, I am grateful.

I saw on the bulletin board downstairs that Cheryl’s husband died at Christmas.

I looked at his photo — with a big old invite to his services on whatever day — and said sorry your wife is such a bitch.

She’s the one who screamed at me off the balcony for feeding ducks and threatened to fine me.

Still waiting. Have some balls, bitch.

Cheryl’s also the one who plays stink finger in the pool with Peppermint Patty, who has started trying to talk to me now that I put up a rainbow flag to counter the MAGA flag on the other side of me.

Anyway, I thought about all this stupid fanfare for Ron. Who I didn’t know and never cared to. Who I am sure is no loss, if he’s related to that wretch.

Made me think it’s high time to write an obituary for Momma. Someone who ACTUALLLY deserves to be celebrated.

I got to thinking about my Aunt Marion, who my cousin Elaine loved. I looked up Marion’s obituary and read it with new eyes.

“Survived by her loving husband Harry.” “Loved being a homemaker.” “Loved her nickname Penny.”

Where to start?

Penny … a short version of our shared maiden name? Nobody called any of us that. Lie.

Loved being a homemaker … you mean how Harry demanded she be a slave to him? Also she had some injuries I ALWAYS questioned. LIE.

Loving husband Harry … who sexually harassed Mom and Elaine? One of the uncles my Mom and Gram told me never hug and feel free to sit in your room while he visits?! HAHAHA FUCK THAT SHIT, NO LOVNG HUSBAND HERE.

That’s how I imagine writing Harry’s obit. It’s how I imagine writing Ron’s.

(Ironically, Ron is another name of another uncle of mine, though his obit would be more like FAKE FUCKING CHRISTIAN WHO JUDGES EVERYONE BUT HIMSELF who also somehow married well.)

In any event, since I have nothing nice to say about Cheryl’s husband, all I can really say is stay dead and take that bitch with you at your earliest possible convenience.

I never said new year/new me. I love me. In fact, I’m taking me up to a damn 11 or 12 in 2025.

Dawn: More extreme and unhinged than 2024. Fucking deal with it.

I’d say eat me, Cheryl, but she probably would.

“Please don’t
Ever become a stranger
Whose laugh I
Would recognize anywhere.”

Happy New Year’s Day to everyone who didn’t vote away my right to credit cards, bank accounts, property ownership and the Social Security that I have already paid FAR MORE into than most of the voters ever will.

The rest can fuck alllllllll the way off. Go into your fucking holes and die in pain like my mother had to.

Speaking of going into a hole, it’s a Hermit year for the collective. 2025 adds up to 9.

If I add in my month and day of birth, I get 12, the Hanged Man as my personal card of the year.

I could reduce that further to 3. But that would make 2026 my Emperor year. Unfortunately President Musk ascends this year, so I don’t need to extend that shit.

My friend CJ got the Hanged Man card and it spooked him. I said it’s a good card unless your reader used the Thoth deck.

He sent a pic … of the Hanged Man in the Thoth deck. Yeesh. No wonder he won’t look at it otherwise.

I mainly use decks from Tarot Collectibles, and he’s reimagined Rider-Waite very lovingly and positively. Like, one of the Hanged Man cards has butterfly wings. Another has bat wings. And the colors are psychedelic and/or, depending on the deck, sparkly.

And we know how I love pink and sparkly anything!

It’s Italian tradition to wear red underwear on New Year’s Eve if you want to attract love.

Fuck that shit. I wore green to attract money.

When I sat down to write my vision for this year, I focused more on manifesting discipline than companionship. So, the Emperor’s main quality.

I didn’t even bother with my usual list of things I want in a place to live. In true Hanged Man style, I just want to chill and see what comes to me.

I also decided to do a No-Buy 2025. I have a page full of things I can/can’t buy.

Even right now, I’m twitchy because I didn’t buy pork and sauerkraut for New Year’s Day for good luck.

But, I had both last year and my baby died 25 days later. Will not eating the lobster sushi I bought for today make me luckier? Keep that 15 bucks, girlie and enjoy that $19 sushi as intended.

And that bottle of Mom’s favorite champagne, too, obviously.

I did promise myself that. All traditions are out the fucking window without Momma.

But I promised myself to always toast her with “Bug Juice,” the original name of the sparkling wine she loved most.

Hold on to the memories
They will hold on to you
I will hold on to you.

I really hit the jackpot living with her. Which I didn’t really realize for most of the 17 years I had her.

I know two people who are pursuing legal action against people they lived with. My one friend bought a house with a deadbeat who won’t help her sell it. She’s paying half the mortgage, rent, all the utilities at her new place, PLUS Florida just ordered her to pay half HIS utilities. Even though he’s trashed their house to the point no one will buy it.

Man did I get lucky “just” having my mom instead of someone to suffer through boring ass sex but a proper financial fucking from.

Yeah, definitely not in a rush to put myself out there for that kind of shit outcome.

As for me, Taylor Swift said something profound during one of her rain shows.

As she prepared to play her first surprise song of the night, she said, “My life finally makes sense.”

That’s what I want more than anything. For my life to make sense.

I know that’s a big “resolution” for New Year’s Day. But I picked a couple areas where sense needs to return. And I think it’s quite manageable and even possible.

Though I still think I need some kraut anyway. Don’t wanna forget how Momma used to make it. Which was goooooood.

Happy 2025, Momma and Cocoa, wherever you are. You’re coming with me, wherever it takes me. And I hope it’s quite far.

Despite losing my mom and my cat this year, I’m not inclined to wish away 2024.

After all, we have President Musk on his way in. And I’m sure Melania will do to what’s left of Jimmy Carter’s solar panels (that fuckface Ronald Reagan didn’t) what she did to Jackie Kennedy’s Rose Garden.

I’m not quite ready to turn in my beach town tank tops for a burqua.

But speaking of First Lady Elonia, I gotta give him credit for destroying Jack Dorsey’s Twitter, of which I was a member since 2007.

I mean, I got rid of my original account so fuckin Cindy would stop goddamn following me.

Which bit me in the ass this year because I wanted to see my friend Leanne’s account but I can’t access it.

Why? Because when she died, she had a private account — and only my original account could have seen it.

I am really sad because her final tweet was perfection. But naturally Cindy had to ruin me getting a screenshot of it too.

As if I didn’t have enough reasons to rue Rosemary’s Baby’s birth, god.

In any event, speaking of the devil (though I’ve mentioned a few so far), I am quite glad that not only have I fully defected from Xitter, save for one account where I save all my screenshots of the nuttiest nut who ever nutted …

But I am not even tempted to read her play-by-play commentary on my life because I couldn’t find it if I tried.

I mean, I probably could find it if I tried. I am a Very Good Researcher(TM) and all.

I am just not trying because I lost enough brain cells doing that already, and for what?

At least that shitshow (for me) stopped running in 2024. Something positive about this year.

Another weird positive revolves around Howler Monkey.

That one must watch everything I do online too.

I tried to slip one of my staff an issue at the last possible minute on Friday.

Well, that joy was watching and immediately tracked an edit.

I got the email that she was in my file and I was like GAH, WHAT.

Another of my staff had said maybe this ball of joy is my lesson. That her existence is meant to teach me something.

After all my staff got the same email that this cherub was in my document (that I had tagged THEM in, not her), one of my people called me.

Person (I like) said you know what, did it ever occur to you that this one knows you’re special … and they hitch to your wagon?

I said I am willing to entertain that.

What I did not say is either cherub is just so enthralled by me that she wants to share my light of greatness. Or that by changing a comma (or whatever — I didn’t look), they can say they helped me shine?

What I also didn’t say is how come there is a typo in the live version of everything this one “edits”? Jesus FUCK I am tired of this shit.

I don’t know. I don’t really think too hard on it. I can’t. Otherwise I’d go back to feeling wounded after they sliced me down to size.

Maybe my friend here has a point. I am amazing. Maybe they do recognize the goddess before them.

Maybe my confidence and dearth of fucks drives them nuts. Or maybe they are inspired by it and want to get as close to this awesomeness as they can.

Like that other ghoul.

Really, what is the purpose of stalking me around the internet if not to watch me shine?

If only Teams would die like Twitter, then I could somewhat look forward to the incoming year.

At least 2024 had my mom and my baby in it. The new one has no such redeeming qualities.

I used to go to NYC at Christmas.

Would fly up to Philly to stay with Renee and Terry.

Renee and I would take the train to Grand Central to meet Uncle Bobby.

He’d take us around town and buy us a nice lunch someplace.

I also got to go to the city with her and Terry and her parents. They made reservations at Carmine’s every year.

That’s her dad in the background of the first pic. At the Bux where they spelled my name “Don” and I’m shocked since they called me “DoRn.”

When Renee decided to unfriend me in real life and on Facebook, I mailed a super expensive baby gift that I’d been planning to take to her. And that was the end of it.

I did get to NYC on my way to Vermont. And again on my way to Pittsburgh. But other than spending a lot of time at Newark, Laguardia and JFK, I wouldn’t say it was an actual NYC trip.

This year, I had an invite from Matt to come to a charity gala on Wall Street, my imagined second home.

And I surprised myself more than anyone by saying what is money, really? The Fed will print more and I’ll make more.

As luck would have it, I arrived the morning the insurance CEO got shot. I also got there for the Rockefeller tree lighting.

“Let’s gather round the Big Tree

All you strangers who know me.”

The Backstreet Boys were the headliner. I think it was 2007 that Taylor Swift headlined, but I was too cold to care what was playing over the sound of my teeth chattering.

That’s because it was NYC’s coldest night AND first snowfall. Which reminded me of “All Too Well,” so, same thing.

“And in the city’s barren cold

I still remember the first fall of snow

How it glistened as it fell

I remember it all too well.”

The next night was the NYSE tree lighting. Which I missed because I had gotten a ticket to “The Notebook” at the Schoenfeld.

Which I stumbled out of, sobbing because the play was SO GOOD … and stumbled right into Junior’s Cheesecake.

The last time I was at the Times Square location, I was eating brunch and Bobby Flay’s people came to have me sign a release.

Bobby was going to be filming there that morning. So, in case I was captured devouring my eggs, they needed my consent.

Which of course I gave.

I never did see that episode, so who knows if they ever captured me or not.

Mom and I went to Junior’s a lot when it opened in Boca Raton. She loved cherry cheesecake from there. Kadie loved it, too.

Kadie used to always “ask” for cheesecake and whipped cream. Waity Kadie. Very patient, before she devoured it.

Junior’s didn’t make it through the pandemic down in Boca. So I absolutely walked my fat ass in there and bought a giant piece of pumpkin cheesecake.

And like my baby, I devoured it after I paid my $40 cab fare back to Stone Street.

I have a lot more to write about my December. But I’m emotionally fraught and shot.

I may never get around to it. Plus I just got back from Christmas at Magic Kingdom and Epcot.

I did the Festival of the Holidays and the Holiday Cookie Stroll, eating cookies around the world.

And drinking around the world.

So much drinking. Had a few of these.

Drinking and riding was more fun with Matt, Tera and Rachel.

But how wonderful it was to get to see them again in NYC.

Tera:

Tara and the guy who wouldn’t leave her alone:

I didn’t get a pic of Mike, but that’s a story for a rainy day. He paid like eight grand for a happy hour in the silent auction. Let’s just say he liked me and I am invited.

Anyway.

This would all be so harder if I were poor. Or didn’t have three credit cards to earn rewards on.

Either way, if I had no way of affording to get off the couch, I would have been “Somewhere in Time”-d by now.

What I will say about the past six months since I lost my mom is this …

I’ve blown every dime and cried every tear.

That was me crying/freezing on the street post-Notebook. At least Oscar Wilde (the bar and the statue) made me smile.

Did I get us into a private event at one of Taylor Swift’s favorite bars?

You bet I fucking did.

I also had a better Christmas than I envisioned or deserved.

I may never walk Cornelia Street again. But …

I can still see it all (in my head)
Back and forth from New York (sneaking in your bed)
I once believed love would be (burning red)
But it’s golden
Like daylight

I wouldn’t say there’s anything resembling daylight in my life. At least, not unless it’s in the sense that night always comes.

When I got home yesterday, I saw my neighbor I was kinda sorta not really with who was mad I didn’t tell him Mom passed. Which I didn’t even confirm.

I treated Kelly to pumpkin spice hot cocoa at Max Brenner. Which Uncle Bobby had taken Renee and me to. Cheers, Uncle Bobby! Quality human. Unlike everyone else.

Like Tommy (what is it with these Italians who keep the “y” at their age?!), who stuck his nose in the air and said a flippant, “Hi.”

I was actually like, “Hiii!” like I saw a part of my past I remembered fondly.

Then I remembered I hated him because he was rude to my mom and Cocoa. And, well, fuck that.

My cousin gave me my Cocoapotamus for Christmas.

I was telling Kelly, who was in NYC with me and also Disney, everything else now seems so “mid.”

The people, the events, the food the Christmas lights in NYC were all so big and bright and fun and delicious and memorable.

And now to come back to FL where everyone and everything is half the size and people/places have about a third of the class … fuckin’ MID.

Sand tree? Meh. Kravis Center? Enh. Food? Fugheddabout it.

She pointed out we aren’t terribly rich or cultured and even we aren’t impressed with this place. Imagine if we were one, the other or both.

And so, it’s our New Year’s intention to elevate further.

We’ll just have to endure a lot more mid while we save up for more things that are actually spectacular.

Like France and not just the France Pavilion. Though that was pretty awesome too.

I used to be so angry at work.

This job and every job before it.

That people weren’t working 14 hours and commuting three like me.

That they had doctor’s appointments and dance recitals and soccer games to get to. That deadlines didn’t change because they had somewhere else to be.

That I felt somehow personally responsible for holding all the shitshows together.

That it never occurred to me to take the time I deserved and, frankly, needed.

I think of how Brad didn’t approve my vacation and feigned shock when I canceled it. He knew I wasn’t going to let anything fail. He knew I couldn’t trust him to do fuck all of anything to cover me. Because he would let it all go to shit and then BLAME me.

I think of all the doctor’s appointments I never made. All the appointments MOM never asked for because god forbid it would get in the way of work.

I think of all this now when the best I can give is a few hours of hard jamming because I cannot fucking focus on anything till 11 or later.

How I turn into a pumpkin at five and honestly it’s really four or 3:30. Though I will struggle till six just to justify the mythical “workday.”

I look back on those people I called lazy in my life. I still think most of them were. But a few, I wish I would have given them the grace I need.

The memory problems from (undiagnosed) long covid.

The aches and pains that come with being a woman of thirtysomething.

The fucking forgetfulness that made me order a pink shirt to go with the pink Christmas earrings I bought two weeks ago. The earrings that I’ve LOST and now I have a pink shirt and no jewelry to match.

The same forgetfulness that made me misplace Christmas ornaments and picture frames. Like seriously where the fuck are they, cavorting with the earrings? I bought a damn photo printer and a tree FFS. Can has one damn completed project? ONE?!!

Ok, one.

And the sadness of losing everyone and the guilt of wishing them away once or twice under some illusion that life would return to being calm and productive and fun again eventually.

I feel sometimes like I’m not entitled to my grief. And other times, I feel rightly sentenced to it.

Randomly I googled my landlady. Been here six years and it never occurred to me.

My god, it’s tragic. No wonder she does not give shit one about this place. Everyone who lives here dies. Everyone.

I better get out before I do, too.

Or maybe this is a good place to go out. Everybody’s doing it.

Good enough for them, good enough for me. Why would I think I deserve any better?

I read that therapy isn’t for learning to deal with sadness, trauma and loss.

It’s for learning to let joy back into your life.

Hunh.

I’ve seen so many people go to therapy and remain as fucked up as they were when they went in.

I attributed that to a lying psychologist I knew (Eve) and a counselor accused of SA (a guy I knew in person and might have had computer sex with when he moved away, when that was a thing). Before the SA allegations OFC.

Like, who were they to tell anyone how to live their best life.

But I have another friend in the industry who’s an upstanding citizen. And my Disney friend’s therapist has her reading about timeline jumping and the Fifth Dimension and shit. She’s lost some weight and gotten her life together. So, bravo.

I got to thinking about grief. It’s particularly bad this Christmas. And I’ve been sad ever since Mom’s diagnosis.

She was never lucky. Ever. I mean, she said she got lucky having me.

But I was always lucky. Shit, even yesterday, I got a flat tire … right across from Tires Plus.

It was mercifully still open on a Sunday night. And it was only $32 to patch.

Like, who has stories like that? Me, that’s who.

ETA the same tire kept me from leaving for Orlando on Christmas Eve. Lucky to be alive but not amused. But I made it for our 8 pm reservation!

I watched “It Ends With Us” three times yesterday. I’m overjoyed that Blake Lively, after suffering a monthslong smear campaign by the director, dropped an 80-page lawsuit with receipts.

It’s like when Taylor won her $1 lawsuit against the guy who groped her.

Like, why aren’t women treated with basic decency by men. Why does everyone side with the men. Why does a woman need photos and witnesses and a spine of steel to be believed.

I am so lucky I never had any big battles like that. May I always be, if not worshiped like I deserve, at least left to enjoy my life in peace.

That’s another saying I love. Stop doing more to hurt people who have little to nothing. Let them enjoy that nothing in peace.

That’s where I am right now. Peace at any cost. The phone stays off. My brain, too.

A friend who lost his mom and her two cats this year hopes to turn his grief into something positive next year. I said I’ve never been so unmotivated in my life, so let me know where you find that energy.

Anyway, what was I saying earlier? Therapy can help you learn to welcome joy back into your life again.

That right there is an interesting intention for the new year.

My Apple Replay says I listened to “Fortnight” most in 2024.

I think it’s just because that’s the first song on TTPD and I have the attention span of a duck.

The rest looks like a bangin’ playlist.

These days, I’m into Chappell Roan. But we are in the gray area where streaming services don’t include your activity in Replay/Wrapped. So I will have to give her some love in January.

Would have loved to have sent this to a few people.

Knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out

Is it casual now?

Two weeks and your mom invites me to her house in Long Beach

Is it casual now?

Gotta get my yuks where I can since the tire light went on again and I barely even drive. And I have a dinner date out of town for Christmas Eve, so naturally what is one more annoyance.

Speaking of annoyance, I am blogging because it is the best place to hide online.

Everyone else is upset I have stopped answering texts.

(The passport thing broke me. I mean, everyone dying and the orange fuhrer winning broke me. Being denied a passport based on my appearance was the cherry on top.)

So they follow my likes and shit to make sure I am alive.

I should be more grateful.

My plan was to dodge all the invites and celebrate Mithra’s birthday at Disney Springs.

But I have another orphan friend who said any chance I can crash your party and I said of course.

So many orphan friends. We are too young for this.

I was hiding from that friend too last night. I took myself to “Holidaze,” which apparently is a Cirque du Soleil.

But it was so mid compared to “Drawn to Life.”

And “The Rockettes Christmas Spectacular” made Holidaze look like community theater.

To be fair, I was livid that I arrived over an hour early, waited forever for seats to fill up since I was near the aisle, and then the Kravis let in like 18 people after the show started.

Not only that but one guy picked a fight w me and I about tossed him over the Loge balcony.

Then someone brought in a walker and an usher had to crawl over us to get it back.

At least the girl next to me hated humanity as much as I do, so we bonded over idiots ruining our night.

Same idiots got lost at intermission too. She predicted they would. We got crawled over again by the same 18 people after the show restarted.

I know my Disney friend would have been hurt to not be invited. But they do a lot of shit without me too.

Still I was careful to get my first healthy selfie in an unmarked location.

And I was punch-drunk from my magic hot cocoa with peppermint rumchata.

Anyway I feel like I became such a snob this year. Now that I have gotten back to New York where I was around real Christmas, West Palm Beach just feels sadder and smaller. We only have good weather going for us.

I must have walked into (and out of) 14 bars. I wanted a holiday cocktail and couldn’t find one.

I did eventually twist a bartender’s arm at City Cellar to improvise. It tasted like apple pie with vanilla vodka. Made my night.

So did the Gingerbread House dessert that I brought home and ate at 5 a.m.

Anyway I need to wash the car and apparently I need to check the tires too.

And I guess I have to write people back so they will leave me alone.

Just let me and my couch cushions bond for a while longer. Like a few years longer.

Blessed Solstice.

A sign that these longest nights will come to a merciful, if not temporary, end.

No bored games for me, ever.

I did light a candle. Least I could do to honor the Mother night.

I haven’t left the house since I got back from New York.

Well, I take that back. I did go get groceries, and the elevator was broken. So I struggled with 10 bags and diminished lung capacity to scale the stairs.

The wine survived. But I can’t find my Ross treasures. So, they could still be in the stairwell for all I care.

Oh and I got a new bridge. It doesn’t fit right because I held my mouth wrong during the measurements.

So, leaving the house really isn’t working for me, overall.

Speaking of never wanting to interact with others again…

To retaliate against my dipshit neighbor’s MAGA banner, I put up a big rainbow flag and a “We’re Not Going Back” sticker.

And now suddenly Peppermint Patty, who yelled at Mom and me six years ago and whose death I have prayed for every day since, keeps trying to hit on me when I dash to the trash chute.

The elevator being broken wasn’t the worst of the week’s events, though Peppermint Patty following me around is definitely worse.

I went to get my passport renewed … and got rejected.

I’d had the photos taken after I came back from Key West, so I was tan and happy and blonder than ever.

Waited a month for my appointment at the post office. The lady took one look at my pics and said you need to get your money back. The State Department won’t let you have anything on your head.

A HEADBAND.

I said wouldn’t the State Department want me to look the same way I would on a street camera instead of for some kid at FedEx’s camera?

The lady offered to take a pic, but I was in a Santa hat from London & Martin, a gift from Matt at the gala afterparty.

I wasn’t about to take off that hat — with no makeup and snot coming out of every orifice — oh and hey, can we talk trauma for a minute?

Why the fuck do you think I cover my head at every available opportunity? Fucking think about it. There is a goddamn reason I don’t show my hairline.

I melted down in the post office.

Since I was in Boynton, the absolute trashiest place on earth and you cannot convince me otherwise, I said I wouldn’t even have to leave the country if all you low-class dipshits didn’t vote for trump in the first place.

The lady laughed.

I didn’t think I could hate trump or trumpers more. But now to dig up 40 years of absolute trauma that results in denying me my ticket out of the country that I don’t actually want to leave? Fuck y’all.

I tried to explain all this to my cousin when it happened. She didn’t understand why I was so upset, and I did what I always do. I shut the phone off for a week.

Only Mom would get it. Only Mom would know. Only Mom could say the right thing and have the right solution.

But no, that’s all on me now. To process shit alone and solve it if possible.

Or, more likely, to crawl on the couch with a blanket and Hallmark movies.

Which incidentally I wrote in my most recent newsletter because I am sick of everyone writing “I hope you can spend the holiday with family.”

Fuck you, no, I can’t.

And to top it off, Macro died.

And if you didn’t know Macro, you lost out.

Mom loved Macro. I hope she gets to give him a hug.

Macro and Jack, together again.

The thing they don’t tell you about rock bottom is there always seems to be another layer of parking beneath it.

It is bottomless bottom. It never fucking ends.

Rock Fucking Bottomless.