I’ve lost my mind the most.
Normally I don’t write two journal/blog/diary thingies in a week, let alone a day, but I’m sitting here just realizing, there’s no one left to talk to. (I don’t always pay attention but when I do I’m still very wtf).
Is that pathetic? Eh. Maybe. Do I care?
Fucking obviously, here I am journal/blog/diary-ing twice in one day.
Wtf do people do with the second half of their lives?
My kids are grown, my grandkids are off doing whatever this years version of, “Too cool for you, granny-o,” does these days, the hubs, literally, cannot stand the sound of my voice (he looks at me as if my face will come unhinged and bats will fly out my mouth) (they fucking might) and everybody else is dead.
My C8 disk is ferked because I slept wrong.
Active sleeping is too much for me now.
L3/L4, L4/L5, L5/S1 were already ferked so I can’t even active sit-up-straight without my left arm turning into pins and needles, my left ass cheek feels like I rode Ragbrai all month, my sciatic nerve makes its presence known all the way down to my left pinky toe and my right ankle randomly stops acting like an ankle and does an excellent imitation of, oh, I dunno, something without bones.
There is supposedly a federal program or two that non-working people and/or physically ferked people and/or mentally ferked people (I can say these things because I am all of these things) can apply for and get, Oooh, free money! (that all us working stiffs actually paid into for decades so its not actually free, you bananahead) but a person has to be terminally ferking ferked to actually get paid any of that money so early retirement it is.
Woo-hoo! Two dollars a day for the rest of my life.
Okay, that is slightly exaggerated but only just.
The bad news: There’s nothing for dinner. The good news: There’s lots of it.
“No one wants to work these days,” they say.
Well, toots, point me in the direction of a job that will pay me to sit waaay over on my right ass cheek with my left arm above my head and my left leg bent under me like I’m about to pray to the 50-yard-line while yelling praise the lord through goddamned ill fitting lisp-enhancing ugly af dentures and I’m your gal!
Pay me to blog, bitch. (I can say that, there’s no one really here).
Or buy me a soda. (Seriously).
Or let me read this really funny thing to you I just read to myself because there’s no one to ferking talk to. I would take that as payment. Just let me rattle on at you for awhile. But, you have to be really good at fooling me into believing you find me interesting or I will unhinge my jaw and barf up bats.
One of these days I’m going to drive my mind out into the country and leave it on a gravel road.
Just watch, it’ll beat me home.
And it will still be craving nicotine.
Barefoot Iowa 