It’s Sundurday Octember eleventy-five in the year of the 12th circle of hell. Please direct me to where I can submit my resignation. I’ve been on this ride for almost 10 months – I have vertigo, dejavu, symptoms of mild depression, characteristics of a sloth and what some might call an (insert air quotes here) “alcohol problem”. I’m done with this ride. Where’s the manager, KAREN?! 2020 is the prom you were forced to go to because your mom told his mom YES on your behalf and then spent the entire time in the bathroom waiting for it to be over on repeat. (yes, that’s a real story) If 2020 had a soundtrack it would be a Nickelback cover of WAP. I’m going to go invest in some Nyquil – wake me up never. In Florida, a woman was accused of driving a motorized shopping cart through a Target while drinking wine from the bottle and eating sushi and Cinnabons. Questionable combo, sure, otherwise, I’m not exactly sure what the problem is, Officer. Who isn’t drinking from and by the bottle anymore? I’m here for it and she has my full support.
The saga with my eyeballs continues. I woke up the other day to discover I’d lost one of my contacts which would be fine except for I wasn’t home and it was 120 degrees of A MILLION FIRES outside, not to mention wearing glasses with a mask is already a nightmare at livable temperatures. So I searched high and low like the peasant scavenger I am and finally found it under the couch. Naturally. Now kids, this is why you don’t do mushrooms on weekdays. I kid, I kid. I’ll be honest, the contact was left for dead. The odds were NOT in her favor. I could have snapped her in half and put her out of her misery but, alas, I am no quitter. Now I don’t mean to brag, ladies and gentlemen, but I brought a contact back to life which pretty much qualifies me for a doctorate or at least a free stethoscope…at minimum a date with a doctor. I’d even settle for an EMT. Is it too early to start drinking?
I had a conversation about social media the other day which was spurred by watching The Social Dilemma on Netflix – which I HIGHLY recommend – which then sucked me into a rabbit hole of epic proportions that I’m fairly confident my left leg is still in. Everything we do online is being monitored. Every.single.thing. They know when we are depressed, when we are up late at night, when we’re stalking our exes, what videos we’ve been watching – every click we’ve ever made has been clocked. It’s not our data being sold, it’s our ATTENTION. One quote that really stuck with me was, ‘If you’re not paying for the product, you are the product’. (insert Twilight Zone music here) Like addicts, we are users. Without us, they have no product. It’s actually terrifying. And I know this is true because I’m still being bombarded by wedding dresses…every.single.day. I repeat: TERRIFYING.
The question, ‘How much of your life are you going to give to us?’ came up several times and it really made me think about the access I’ve created to my own life. I’m quite candid and, at times, downright vulnerable when I write. But that’s how I feel all art should be – it should always be personal. What is anything if you don’t feel it? So yeah, my writing is certainly a journal of sorts for me but I do edit from time to time, of course I do. There’s a lot more to me than what can be found on the internet. Than what I write on these pages. Than the moments captured and posted. Not everything is on the wall and those who are close to me know that. They also know when I’m full of shit, so I do my best to stay as authentic as possible, leaving a little mystery in my wake. There are still locked doors that only a rare few are granted access. And I would like to take this moment to thank them for dealing with the overly emotional ten-texts-in-a-row hurricane of ridiculousness that I am. I can’t promise you that your services will be rendered but they ARE appreciated from the bottom of my black heart.
I have an addictive personality. I’m very aware. I find myself opening Instagram or Facebook for no other reason than muscle memory and that’s a little frightening. It’s become like blinking – an involuntary action – robotic and disturbing. People talk about celebrities like they know them and that has always bothered me. We should be all up in our friends lives – you know the ones we love and have emotional connections with and actually matter at the end of the day. The ones who know you exist – give THOSE people your attention. It’s not a perfect doc – in fact, it’s laced with a scripted storyline that made me want to rocket myself into the ether and was described by one journalist as “…ridiculous?”. The question mark, by the way, is my favorite thing about her review. But the point is, it DID make me think, as if I need to do anymore of that. I want to be intentional about my time and what I do with it and who gets pieces of it. I want to LIVE out loud and discover castles and watch sunsets and write by the sea and chase all the waterfalls and so should you. Get off Facebook, Brenda – a whole world of opportunity awaits you! Carpe the…yeah…you get it. (mindless wave of the hand) Go. Scurry on.
Not sure if anyone is aware, but Election Day is coming up. (I’m kidding – of course you’re aware) Why would we get a day off for a bunch of dead presidents but not the day dictating which president will directly affect our lives? No offense to Washington or whatever but – I don’t think anyone even voted for him. ( I did some research, they did, he had no opponent but let’s move on). It sounds like I’m having meth-like spirals over here but I’m really ok. I even cooked salmon for the first time all by myself so look who is an adult now! Hold your applause because I’ve also made a habit of leaving dumbbells at my bedside like the idiot croissant I am. So I had to create an alarm that now reminds me to make sure said dumbbells are put away so I don’t maim myself in the night like some kind of rickety bag of bones with hip and rib issues. This is what it’s come to folks. All I need is a Sunday – Monday pill box, a rascal and a pair of crocs. Old lady central. I’m basically a Golden Girl at this point. What can we do anymore but cry, drink wine, swim in pools until they’re empty and find memes that express our insides? Drink MORE wine, that’s what. May we all find the crazy Target lady living inside of all of us. To sushi and cinnamon rolls. Cheers & besos.
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