New Year’s Eve. I should say something profound. I should say something deep and hopeful about the “tenacity of the human spirit” or at least something witty and cute.

There’s too much pressure.

Last year on this day I was frantically searching for a doctor to see my husband because all the tendons on his hand were severed and nobody would help us because we were a workers’ comp case and apparently America hates workers.

It got sorted, though, and it was nice to have him home. He can move his fingers.

A couple weeks after that somebody hurt someone very close to me who I am supposed to protect and I felt a pain that damn near leveled me. I had the same pain when I was a kid but nobody helped me heal. I guess I healed a little by helping this person. I wish it were back the other way, though. I’d rather remain split wide open than have her hurt.

Forgive my vagueness. There is no other choice.

And then a few weeks after that, as you know, because I’ve been bitching about it for months and months on end, Mac was called out of town for 10 months and I got lost in self pity and resentment and rage that morphed into almost-depression, the deep-black-pit kind.

In the middle of it I leased an office because “I’m a real writer.”

And I taught a couple classes but they were the last ones I’ll teach because I’ve convinced myself “I’m a real writer.” I teach workshops. I love that. You keep signing up. Somehow in 2015 in spite of it all I found a way to “make a living” “as a writer” with this blog and with these workshops and THAT’S SOME OVERWHELMING SHIT.

(thank you.)

I don’t know what I learned from Mac being gone all those months and the screaming and tears that ensued as I stamped my feet and raged at my own inability to control life circumstances. Wait. Maybe that’s what I learned. That’s what I’m always learning.

I can’t. It’s too clichéd.

Move along.

This past month a friend was killed in a car accident and a man who was like an uncle to me died during a routine surgery so it was the first Christmas without him and it felt weird. I saw the sadness in my dad’s eyes. They were cousins. I learned why my aunt always cries when we sing “Have yourself a merry little Christmas.” Because there are a ten or a hundred people not there to hear it. It’s impossible to make sense of it all.

I watch Georgia create hand motions to “Frosty the Snowman” and let that be enough.

Today right now I sit in my office with 100 pages of a manuscript to my left and an almost-done book proposal to my right and I think 2016 will be amazing.

Is there anything else to think?

The son of my friend may think otherwise, the one whose mother was killed.

And there’s a part of me that thinks otherwise, too, but just a little and in moments of tickling loss, because I’m lucky enough to only have that. Right now, in December 2015.

On New Year’s Eve there’s a hope that travels around each tragedy anyway, unless it’s too huge and all-consuming and only time will lessen it (does that even work?), and I feel the hope too, next to the side of me that’s like “Wtf I just want to go to bed. Fuck your anti-climactic ball-dropping.”

And then I laugh. Because “Anti-climactic Ball-Dropping” is a fucking funny thing to say. I mean, isn’t it?

Happy New Year.

Let’s all suck slightly less than we did in 2015.

It’s the tenacity of the human spirit. The only way.

Striped pajamas.

Puke.

If you ever told me this would become my life I would LAUGH LAUGH LAUGH. 

Hey lady. I see you. Staring me down in the condiment aisle while my 10-year-old blocks your view of the stone-ground mustards. Look. I get it. I’m there with my 4 kids at 4pm, one of them on my hip, the other climbing the cart, the other in your way.

I told him to move. You got your mustard. But yeah, my voice probably lacked a certain vigor you were hoping for. Or maybe you just glared at me because there are so many of us. I feel that, my friend.

But you gotta understand something here: I didn’t start out this way. I didn’t start out broken and weeping by the organic kale. When I walked into this place I was full of hope and promise, just like you. When I put my baby in the cart and purse in the basket, I wasn’t staring down the barrel of 15 years of questionable life choices culminating in four dirty-blonde children circling me like those bastards ‘round the fire in Lord of the Flies.

I was setting out on some good ol’ fashioned excess in the chain grocery store!

Perhaps you don’t have children, or perhaps you have children but are one of those mothers whose kids never act like Tiny Adorable Crackheads due to your excellent parenting, or maybe you don’t take them to the store because you have a nanny taking care of that sort of nonsense, or maybe you’ve (gently, lovingly of course) coerced them into submission, or maybe…yeah. I don’t know. Maybe you’ve forgotten?

At any rate, you need to understand the stages of parental degradation in the grocery store so next time you see a forlorn jacked-up mother (not like ON DRUGS just TIRED) you can eke out a tiny fake smile or even no face at all in place of the death eyes you threw me last week.

Stay with me here.

Stage 1: Hope and Promise.

Here I am, going to the store with my kids, getting groceries for dinner tonight, looking forward to our friends coming over. It’s 4pm. They’re coming at 5:45. Plenty of time!  Just need to get a few simple things. Ohhhh look at that cute baby and damn I missed them today. Sure! Get the Dubliner! I love cheddar!

“Georgia. Put the bread back. We already have bread.”

“Please stop poking the tortillas.”

“No skipping, please. Not here.”

“Where the hell is Rocket?”

“OMG TIE ARLO INTO THE CART WHY IS HE STANDING?”

I realized around the time I passed the bread aisle that Georgia was in “one of those moods.” It’s hard to describe. It’s a 4-6 year old thing. Around the hours of 4-6pm, before they’ve eaten, after a full day of school. They’re tired as fuck. They’re hungry. They’re WEIRD. They look at you with these sort of glazed-over eyeballs and you wonder if perhaps you’re talking to somebody who’s had a few too many. You touch their arms to get them to engage but, like drunk people, they start crying and you realize the only thing to do is GET THIS PERSON HOME before they wet their pants.

Or piss on your couch. Wait. Are we talking about college? No! Where am I?

Store. Right. So within just a few moments I realize we’re going to have one of those trips to the store and I move from “Hope and Promise” to Stage 2.

Stage 2: “Parenting”

Janelle, the kids are tired and hungry. They’ve been at school all day. They’re worn out. If you speak to them with kind-hearted reason, they’ll totally respond because they love you and aren’t total fucking sociopaths.

“Georgia, I told you that if you run around the aisles you have to get in the cart. So please come get in the cart.”

“I can’t. It’s full.”

“Rocket, please stop riling up the baby. I really need him to sit in the cart as opposed to squeal and flail uncontrollably.”

“Georgia, okay. Come here then and hold my hand.”

“Ava, can we talk about this later? I’m really trying to focus and I don’t want to forget anything.”

WHERE THE HELL DID GEORGE GO?

They are not responding to reason. You’ve said the same sentence 9 times. You’ve been interrupted distracted and physically assaulted (by the toddler) at least 10 times. What the hell is happening here I am so tired my back hurts I don’t have this in me WHERE IS THEIR FATHER?

Time for Stage 3: Parenting with subdued rage

You are breathing rapidly to contain the irritation while trying so fucking hard not to forget the shredded Parmesan cheese. Fuck parenting. They’re all terrible. Fuck learning moments. This shit sucks. I just need to get out of the store so I can tell these kids how bad they were and punish them somehow in some really effective method I’ll think of when I get there.

“Georgia I swear if you don’t come here RIGHT NOW (gritted teeth non-yell) I am going to…(what? You have nothing but empty threats and she knows it.)”

“Put your hand on this cart AND DO NOT MOVE EVER.”

“Fine. Just give me the baby. I’ll just hold him.”

“No we cannot get seaweed, that grind-it-yourself peanut butter, more bread, eggnog, chocolate, flowers for daddy, balloons for daddy, anything for daddy, a succulent for nana, a coconut, some small peppers, or Altoids. NO WE ARE NOT GETTING ANY OF THAT SHIT BECAUSE YOU ARE ALL ASSHOLES AND I HATE YOU.” (Oh god I don’t hate you please never leave me.)

But what comes out: “No, kids.

NO

NO

NO

NOPE

NOPE

NO. We’re not getting that,” as you smile at the old man who thinks your baby’s cute as he walks by.

“Actually, Rocket. Get the eggnog. Good call.”

Stage 4: Resignation to a failed life

This is where you come in, mustard lady. I’ve been here for 20 minutes with 3 hungry bored tired Americans and a baby who hasn’t nursed in 8 hours, currently on my hip making the milk sign, wailing intermittently, and pulling my shirt down. My 5-year-old is holding the cart as directed but attempting to fling her legs over the side while the 14-year-old holds the cart down telling her to stop and my 10-year-old is staring blankly at some condiment RIGHT IN YOUR WAY and I know it, and I tell him, but I’m resigned. I’ve surrendered.

He moved. Sorry for getting in your way. You’ll be fine.

Did you really need to throw me the death glare?

You think this is the moment I imagined? You think I’m enjoying this? I’m for sure not. This is a moment I endure to get to the next one. I’ve moved through the parental stages of degradation and now I’m in full-flight from reality FUCK IT ALL I don’t-even-care-anymore-get-me-outta-this-store mode.

When I finally make it to the checkout line, I realize I’ve forgotten the Parmesan cheese. When I send my kid to go, he runs down the motherfucking aisle, like a wayward 5-year-old, even though he’s 10, which proves to Georgia the great injustice of existence and she’s crying. While the baby tries to nurse and I try to pay and Ava gets pissed at Rocket for just being so annoying on purpose all the time.

When we get into the car, I whisper “Jesus Fucking Christ” under my breath but definitely loud enough for the kids to hear. Then I inquire “WHY WERE YOU SO BAD IN THE STORE TODAY?” and demand that nobody make a single utterance – accidental or otherwise – until we get home.

Then I move into Stage 5: Pretty much okay again.

Let’s make dinner. We have eggnog!

So what I’m trying to say here, lady, is that sometimes you catch people when they are not 1000% winning at life and most likely, they’re struggling with their reality as hard as you are struggling to understand how somebody could possibly suck this badly at life.

Most likely, the loser in the grocery store with the unruly kids will be back to Stage 2 (“Parenting”) or even Stage 1 or 5 within mere moments, and we can all just move along in our respective lives without Laser Eye Death Beams.

Whatdoyasay?

No?

Well forget you then.

I’m at Stage 4 in this relationship.

Eggnog!

You know I don’t give advice, but there’s this one area of life I have so mastered so fully (SARCASM MOTHERFUCKERS) I feel it would be a disservice to humanity to not share.

And that area is: LOSING WEIGHT.

Look, I don’t want to discuss feminism or women’s bodies or getting comfortable with my fatness or whatever the fuck else we all sit around discussing. I KNOW there are fat yogis balancing on their heads, powerful as hell. I KNOW there are women super okay with the rolls of their belly but I also know that those women are not me.

I am neither a fat yogi nor a woman comfortable with her belly.

I feel like shit. My back hurts. I look at myself naked and sorta want to puke. I KNOW I HAVE INTERNALIZED BODY SHAMING NARRATIVES OF SELF HATRED.

I’m not proud. I’m merely stating the facts: I am overfuckingweight and I don’t like it. I’m overweight because I eat too much and believe in the futility of eating one’s feelings yet do it anyway because THAT’S FUN.

Also, I don’t exercise enough.

I wasn’t always overweight. While they were trying to find what was wrong with me (during my active alcoholism), they gave me a bunch of psychiatric diagnoses and put me on 7 to 11 different psychotropic drugs at the same time. I gained 70 pounds in 3 months.

Um…..

And I’ve never quite been able to regain control. But I can’t blame that completely. Sure, that’s how it started, but once it happened I began the spiral into Fuck It All I’m Already Fat and started eating with wild abandon.

I’m not particularly unhealthy. My blood pressure is low. My blood sugar normal.

But I feel like shit.

This is just me. This is not a statement on all fat women in the world, or America. Or even my town. Or even one single other person.

I’m sure if I were a better, more enlightened human, I would

A. get okay with my body as it is; or,

B. do something about it.

I’m working on B.

But I kinda suck at it.

Once, a few years ago, when I was about this weight, I got super pissed off and done with not changing and I lost 40 pounds over a year or so and felt amazing.

Then I got pregnant again and gained it all back that was nearly 2 years ago the end.

Nice story, right?

I hate that story. That story can lick donkey balls.

Sorry. I should be more feminine.

I should stop apologizing.

I AM A FAT APOLOGIZING WOMAN FULL OF ANTI-FEMINIST GUILT AND BAD LANGUAGE.

Okay here’s the deal: I’m trying to lose weight to feel stronger and more able-bodied and in less pain AND to feel more comfortable in my body and clothes.

Here’s how it’s going:

4am: Wake up but against my will. Nurse tiny creature next to me and beg him (in silence of course) to go back to fucking sleep

5am: Breathe a sigh of relief that tiny human fell back asleep, roll over to do the same

5:15am: Wonder why I’m not asleep yet

5:30am: Wonder why I’m not asleep yet

5:45am: Meditate with the vigor of a thousand warriors because JESUS FUCK I NEED SLEEP

6am: Fall asleep

6:30am: Hear alarm go off, want to die

6:36: Get out of bed after looking at phone for 6 minutes even though I know that’s a super bad way to start the day

6:40: Do 7-minute workout thing (dude it’s an app and it rocks and I’ve actually been doing it!)

7am: Eat a healthy breakfast because today is going to be a good clean eating day!

7-10am: Drink 47,000 gallons of coffee but without sugar

10:30am: Healthy snack

1pm: healthy lunch

3pm: Drive around 12 small nations to pick up kids

3:15pm: Realize I’m fucking starving

4pm: Realize I’m dizzy from healthy snack deficiency

4:30pm: Get home. Open fridge. Eat something healthy but wish there was something more filling and also healthy

5pm: Start making dinner

6:30pm: GIVE UP BECAUSE IF FOOD DOESN’T GET IN MY MOTHERFUCKING BELLY RIGHT NOW I MAY DIE OR KILL YOU AND I’M SO TIRED AND I CAN’T EAT A DAMN GRILLED CHICKEN BREAST AND SALAD AGAIN BECAUSE BORING AND FOOD IS COMFORT (NO IT ISN’T) BUT IT KIND OF SEEMS LIKE IT IS SO…

6:45pm: EAT IT ALL,REGRET IT

7pm: Realize I basically negated all my day’s efforts because it’s the night calories that REALLY matter and ohmygodJanelle you suck and you’ll always be fat and nobody likes you.

8pm: Get upset with myself for fat shaming body shaming self bashing and blatant lack of self love.

10pm: Resolve to do better tomorrow.

11pm: Go the fuck to sleep

Then, DUDE CHECK THIS SHIT OUT: I do slightly better tomorrow.

That is actually happening and it’s real. I’ve been making tiny changes and little nudges here and there and I’ve lost 10 pounds over the past 6 weeks. What?

Every day, I’m trying to be a little healthier than the last, and if I eat everything in a 5 mile radius during one meal, I try to get back on track for the next without mentally assaulting myself until I’m lying lifeless on a cold stone floor.

And I see now that a big part of this is realizing that I deserve health and attention and wellness and compassion (lord I sound like a fucking life coach), and tiny changes ultimately result in a new place entirely.

And that feels damn good.

So yeah, success. Or something. Fucking rock it.

Slightly more than yesterday.

Do you ever wish you could see yourself the way your kids do?

Dear Children,

There are four of you. I adore you all. I want the best for you. I want you to become the people you were meant to become.

And yet, I have never carved your sandwiches into the shape of trains.

Maybe you’ll never care. Maybe you’ll live your whole life without ever mumbling to yourself in the wee hours of a heartless morning “Where was MY baby carrot shaped into an owl with little raisins for eyes? WHAT ABOUT MY BENTO BOX?”

But just in case, I’d like to offer an explanation of what may appear a deficiency, and may in fact be a deficiency, but isn’t entirely without thought either way.

In short, I want you to eat the sandwich because it’s a sandwich, recognizing that as such it has merit all on its own, even if it isn’t round like the wheels on the bus. It has bread, maybe some meat, lettuce, mustard or mayonnaise. These things feed our bodies. Feeding our bodies is amazing. Cute sandwiches do not actually feed our bodies better than non-cute ones.

I want you to get used to this. I want you to eat the sandwich because it’s a motherfucking sandwich, not because it looks like a fish.

Eat the motherfucking sandwich because it’s a motherfucking SANDWICH.

Sorry.

Yeah, I know. I get it. It’s more fun to eat a sandwich that looks like a baby bear. That sounds fun to me too. I love small furry animals. But the thing is, nobody is going to make turkeys out of your cheese balls in your adult life. Nobody is going to make the boring yet necessary parts of life more compelling through Pinterest-inspired sculpting.

Someday you’ll have to sit in meetings while the office manager discusses for the 27^th time how everybody is putting the mail in the mail thing upside down and you’ll be like THIS DOES NOT MATTER HOW IS THIS MY LIFE MAYBE I COULD KILL ALL OF YOU but there will be no way out of it because you need the money and this is your job.

Nobody’s going to make the office manager’s speech more amusing by removing his clothes or putting a donkey headband on him or sticking him in a unicorn suit with the butt part removed.

Nobody’s going to have him discuss how long food should be in the refrigerator via haiku and interpretive dance.

Take a moment and imagine how rad that would be. But will it happen?

No. Never.

You get Boring As Fuck. You get office casual, large table, legal pads, old coffee and general malaise.

A Powerpoint. If you’re lucky. Probably without fun slide transitions.

Nobody cares if you’re entertained.

You get the square sandwich with stuff inside. Probably even with crust.

You see? The minute I start making food AMUSING is the minute you start expecting food to be amusing. Why the hell would I sign myself up for that shit? Get used to bananas as bananas not centipedes and apricots as apricots not clownfish. Why?

Because there are some things we do because they need to be done even though they may not be our favorite.

Like eating, for example.

Although, how is eating not your favorite? How is eating ALL THE THINGS not your favorite? What the fuck is wrong with you?

EAT THE MOTHERFUCKING SANDWICH.

Sorry, again. You know how I struggle with potty mouth.

Okay, are you with me so far? Carving sandwiches into cute fuzzy shit when you’re two is a slippery slope to “Oh, Johnny, you don’t like grapes? What if I turn them into a waterfall cascading into a large Brazilian swimming hole?”

“Oh, no celery? What if I make it into a lion eating a hyena but in our front yard? Wouldn’t you like a lion in the front yard? Lions are amazing! Lemme hear you roar!”

Well, that’s how it is in my brain, at least. I see myself getting pulled around by a tiny ass dictator shouting I ONLY EAT APPLES WITH THE WINGS OF GREAT BALD EAGLES and that terrifies me.

Y’all are annoying enough without demanding artistic enhancement of food items.

Or, I’m lazy.

That’s probably it to be honest. My goal each day is to get food INTO your bag. Its spot on the adorable spectrum is 3,000% not what I care about.

But hey, we all have our talents. I once told you I went to Julliard so many times you told your kindergarten teacher and she invited me to do a presentation at the school on singing and dance.

Tell me that shit isn’t better than a blackberry lamb with a kiwi sun.

That’s creative as fuck.

Anyway, I hope you have a nice life. I love you. I also love trains, baby bears, eagles and clownfish, but not in food form, unless it’s a party, and I’m not throwing it.

Eat the motherfucking sandwich.

Sincerely,

Mom

Although, remember that one time we made a rainbow cake to celebrate marriage equality? fucking NAILED it. Crafty as shit.

Okay, that’s it. I’m officially unmotivated. What the hell happened? I was doing just fine. Well, mostly fine.

I’m never doing THAT FINE. I’m something of a disaster, most of the time. But I DISASTER WELL.

Disastering is one of my most reliable talents.

Does that ever happen to you? You’re going along with your life and it’s pretty cool when all of a sudden BOOM. Monotony. Boredom. It all feels worn out and tired and lost and weird and possibly, at 2am, utterly meaningless?

Or maybe I feel worn out and tired. One can never be sure.

I like to feel sorry for myself. It’s my special spot I love to hate. My therapist – who my friend and I (yes we oddly have the same one) lovingly refer to as The Jedi Ninja – says I like to beat myself up mentally. Something about shame.

So, she’s given me some affirmations. I’m supposed to say them. As in, to myself.

As she sat there across from me in her immaculate office smelling vaguely of peppermint and excessively healthy houseplants, I thought to myself “No way in hell am I going to spew nice little affirmations, lady. I LIKE MY PAIN.”

I’m not Stuart Fucking Smalley.

Jesus.

Come to think of it I’m not Jesus either.

But I started thinking about how after I yell at my kids I start a tape in my head: “Figures, Janelle. Of course you do that. You’re an asshole. And mean. A mean asshole. You’ve been that way forever. Remember when you were a kid? YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN A DICK.”

Or after I eat the 3^rd cookie because I “need something to pick me up,” a new tape starts: “Fat ass! Nasty human. What the fuck is wrong with you? Remember when you were SKINNY? Remember THAT? Oh you loser. You’ll never feel that good again. You’re disgusting.”

I’m good enough and I’m smart enough and doggone it people LIKE ME!

Oh, fuck you Stuart. Nobody likes you.

When I got sober, the person most pivotal in my recovery told me something profound. And I don’t mean sort of profound. I mean like SUPER FUCKING DEEP AND LIFE CHANGING.

Sit down, and listen. It goes like this: Nothing changes if nothing changes.

Whew. Yeah. I know.
Go ahead, Take a moment if you need it.

No no. Don’t turn away. That right there is some crazy shit: We have to physically, actually DO something different if we want new things to happen in our lives. WE CAN’T JUST THINK ABOUT CHANGING.

We have to move our feet in new directions. And our arms. And even our hands. ALL THE BODY PARTS. We have to move our bodies in completely new ways to make new shit happen in our lives.

As I write this I’m realizing this information is probably obvious to every adult on the planet.

Oh well. Whatever. I got sober at 30 and that thought had never occurred to me. I truly believed that if I THOUGHT something enough times it would happen.

I believed if I thought about something, it would change.

The fact that this never worked was insufficient evidence to deter my faith in the efficacy of Thinking About Doing.

(hahahahahahha!)

And that’s what’s up with these stupid mental tapes. I realized recently that some silly part of me seems to think that if I BEAT MYSELF UP enough times, my behavior will change under the weight of my wrath, or something.

Funny thing though: That never happens.

You know when I lost all that weight? When I started exercising and eating better. WHO WOULDA FUCKING THUNK IT?

Turns out self-hatred is a terrible calorie burner.

You know when I became a writer? When I started writing the words.

I know. I know. I’m a pile of wisdom.

Somebody build me an ashram.

Anyway, I’ve been trying the mental-bashing-routine for a few thousand years and it appears to have gotten me precisely nowhere, so I decided I’d give that old therapist a try.

So yesterday in the shower I started repeating the most ridiculous parental goodness affirmation I could think of: “I am a patient and loving and compassionate mother.”

I said it over and over again. Out loud.

I felt like a fucking moron.

Later, in the evening, I made a joke with my oldest kid. I did something nice then said “You know, I did that because I am a PATIENT and LOVING and COMPASSIONATE mother.” I exaggerated each word.

She smiled and said “I know.”

And I almost fell over. I am loving. And I am compassionate, but patience has never exactly been my um, thing. Actually no. Wait. I’m super fucking patient.

For 2 solid minutes.

TWO SOLID MINUTES folks. You can’t teach that.

It felt nice to hear my kid say that, though. It made me smile and I realized I’m probably not quite as bad as my brain would have me believe.

I don’t know. This has been a tough year. And just when I was in a bit of a groove I decided to take on a couple classes at a local university because I love this school and I love the professor who asked me but now I’m working 5 days instead of 3 and I’m no longer solely “self-employed” and I feel set back a bit, like I had a good thing going and “ruined it.”

And when I teach I have insomnia. It’s a thing. I must have a sleep-stress threshold past which my brain is all “fuck you and your desire for rest,” and apparently, teaching college crosses the threshold. And when I’m tired I lash out irrationally and lose it even more, and faster. I’m tired of Mac working out of town. I miss my baby. I’m sick of driving kids everywhere all fucking day forever into the night.

I AM A LOVING AND PATIENT AND COMPASSIONATE MOTHER.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sure. Let’s affirm. I’m affirming my ass off.

Okay fine. It feels good to switch up the narrative a bit, even if I do think it’s bullshit. And I’m tired of the ridiculous brain punishment. That shit doesn’t work either. At least this is more pleasant, and vaguely amusing.

I am Stuart. Hear me roar.

Therapy hour with Janelle has come to an end. I gotta go pick my kids up from school.

With patience. Compassion. And love.
Ha. Ha. Ha.

Wait. I’m not done. My good friend told me the other day she just feels numb, like it’s all work. And I want her to know I feel the same. I feel the same sometimes, CL.

We get lost. We get found. We get bored. We get beat down until we change. We repeat the same same same until we throw our heads back and scream a new line.

Sometimes it’s “FUCK THISSSSSSSS!”

Sometimes it’s a ridiculous affirmation.

Our kid turns 10. The years seem stolen. Our oldest says she knows we’re patient and loving. We laugh cry silently.

We get a Jedi Ninja therapist we join a gym we get a kitten and name it Kimchi we pick up our kids we blast some music we miss our lifecrimepartner we make it one more day.

We write insane shit and remind ourselves “Doggonitpeoplelikeme!”

Until next time, whackos, I’m yours in the crazy.

He turned ten yesterday. She picked him out a bar of homemade soap with a rainbow on it. And she’s wearing a BIRD JUMPSUIT. Fuck it. It’s all good.