Yulmonath
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.