I’m kind of sad about how we the people handled the Tom Petty situation. We insisted he was dead until he agreed. We’re better than that, aren’t we?
Then there’s Vegas which I refuse to even discuss. I don’t have a first hand account, I don’t know any of the survivors, the injured, or the deceased. Lastly, I’m not a wise person full of sage advise and comfort. So though my heart hurts for those impacted, I have nothing helpful to verbally offer and I know better than to speak when I’m just white noise. This is a time to pass the mic to those who truly have something to say. I yield my minutes to the gentleman from Nevada.
Truth be told I was in a funk before either of these tragedies. I just don’t have a good reason. It happens every year at this time. Fall. As in “fall” into an all consuming depression. It’s hoodie weather. Perfect. Giant warm comfortable hoods are ideal for hiding from your responsibilities and telling yourself the more swaddled you are the less likely anyone will see you’re a total failure. Why does this happen? Why the annual lamenting? Why don’t we have cake? Why do I eat my feelings? That can’t be right. Do I eat my feelings? I don’t have feelings. I should be starving. Right? Why do I feel like I feel nothing but based on my calorie consumption I clearly feel enough to feed your mom? That was rude. Forgive me. I’m lashing out. We’re still out of cake.
Maybe it’s because we have way too many traditions this time of year and it’s a really loud in your face reminder that you didn’t do anything with your life since the last time we went to a pumpkin patch you incompetent piss ant. You had a pretty specific list of all the things you were going to do. What happened? Everything is the same except now you’re old and a little fat.
Oh just SHUT UP Sharon. Everyone lies face down in the corn and cries a little at the pumpkin patch.
Maybe it’s because I’m an adult now so Halloween isn’t scary anymore when compared to just every day life. That shit is frightening. I’m the mom at this freak show and if I just stop momming people will die. That’s a lot of pressure. I stepped in something warm and slimy this morning and I don’t know what it was but I do know I have to clean it up and search for the source. Shit like that makes it hard to be afraid of a fragging clown!
Maybe I’m pissy because it’s cold. I wonder if heaven is really really cold? Because Hell is a fiery inferno so if there opposites in everything than you can reasonably assume if you’re too good in this life you might freeze your tits off later.
I can’t just accept being pissy all the time. I can’t just lay around watching Batman cartoons and cursing at children. Actually that one is a highlight, I’m going to keep doing all of that. Still, I’ve got to get my shit together Sharon. I have a plan. Here it is:
1. Make a list of things I am going to do to improve the situation. I love lists.
2. Figure out what that smell is in the kitchen.
3. Do some math. I have no explanation for this but I can’t deny that crunching numbers always make me feel like a legit bad ass. I’m pretty sure I have some award winning level spreadsheets I’ve spent hours upon hours perfecting for LITERALLY NO REASON except the thrill of the formula.
4. Set some goals and for the love of goats lets try to be just a little bit realistic this time. We’re at an age when training for the Olympics is just silly even if we can still do a cartwheel at our age. Speaking of….. we broke an arm this year so no more seeing if we can do a flip. We have never ever been able to do a flip so there is zero reason to believe we’ve suddenly inherited flip skills. In fact lets just agree, for our own safety, we’re not watching any Matrix movies until we can safely handle the consequences of the overwhelming temptation to fight the coffee table and limbo. That’s where we’re starting. Goal numero uno is to get fit enough we don’t pull a muscle watching Kung Fu.
5. We should learn to play the drums Sharon. We’re never going to become an astronaut. That’s something it’s time to accept. The next best thing to an astronaut is a suburban mother of six that can really jam. Everyone knows the wild card in the band is the drummer and we’re most certainly a wild card. Plus we secretly look fly as frag in a sweat band but with the death of jazzercise when else can we showcase that accessory?
6. Stop referring to us as we. Or us. We are just me and therefor us is really an I. So from this point on, no matter how excited I get I’m not going to start referring to myself as an entourage. It’s just me and you and Sharon.
7. Make everyone around me be better people. Nothing lifts you out of depression faster than an ever rising pedestal in which I can shout my advice from.
That’s it that’s the plan. Time to get to work. Good luck pulling me down depression. I just filled up my dance card with sweet ass skills.