It’s been too long so I’m just going to start rambling and see where it goes. Bear with me.
I’m jacked up on chocolate because I’m PMSing and another family member is in the hospital.
Flashback to two hours ago:
I waste petrol and kill planet to take a purpose driven dash down to the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, a crack junkie needing her fix, with my little mom (MLM) in tow. I rush in the store while MLM collects empty biodegradable kelp chip bags off the passenger side floor.
The Candy Hostess greets me with a How are you?
I’m cranky and PMSing and need chocolate right away. I reply.
She half-laughs and comes around the counter with a tray of samples. I’m gobbling down the yummy morsels when MLM saunters in.
She needs one, too. I say through muffled lips and chipmunk cheeks. Please.
I order a peanut butter cup the size of a dinner plate and grab two bars of 95% pure love. (They don’t have 100% or I’d have bought that. I’m sweet enough, as you’ll see.)
Candy Hostess says There’s a discount for three.
I grab another bar, rationalizing and congratulating myself for dollar cost averaging. I don’t keep track of my moon time other than it usually shows up with the full moon and a lot of cravings for cocoa and wanting to claw people’s eyes out. Go figure. (Also, there goes my figure.)
Fortunately, for anyone within my vicinity, I have clipped off my cougaresque fingernails (for ease of typing—the typos were also pissing me off), so I’ll only be able to nub and poke you with chocolate dipped digits.
I feel full-on snarky. I apologize in advance. For what, I’m not sure yet, but I’m confident an apology may yet be needed.
It’s at moments like these that I reconsider Botox (I quit that shit years ago—okay, two years, but that’s years) because my furrowed brow is a permanent etch these few days prior to my riding the cotton pony.
TMI? You have been here before, haven’t you? Well, then, shame on you for coming back and expecting something sweet and fluffy like the non-new-agey spiritual stuff I write for elephant journal. And by stuff, I don’t mean anything disrespectful. I just haven’t written much that has allowed me to cuss with gratuitousness like I can here. Gratuitousness is a fucking word. (Intended ironic example… Well, at least I’m amused.)
Right, so where was I? Oh, right—writing.
Yes, so I’ve busted my balls for ej this month to the neglect of my personal blog, and I ever so apologize—to myself even if you don’t happen to give a care—and though I love the elephant and still giggle and skip about every time they publish one of my essays (over 35 at this writing), I am writing in that other writer’s voice I have.
(And by the way, if you don’t think I have balls, may I introduce you to the Schoolteacher Me aka the Ballbusting Business Bitch aka the redhead formerly known as Realty Lady/Team Bully Leader. Just ask anyone who worked with me back in the day before I became this semi-enlightened /self-aware /love-is-the-answer hippy-dippy earth/animal activist. Okay, fine, activist might be stretching it, but I do believe all the stuff I shovel even if I’m still part heathen, redneck, rebel evil-doer. As in, I’m so not giving up most of my overpriced, red-soled, no soul, designer shoes. But let’s remember I’m also Fashionista Diva, only now I’m accessorizing with guilt. But what the hell. No one’s perfect, right?)
Anyway, the other writer’s voice I have, the ej one, is careful and concerned, if not deep and provocative. That voice wants to transform the world, influence, motivate and inspire action to change the course of this planet. For real. I’ve gotten caught up in it. And, I admit, in the high of collecting clicks (almost 60,000 this month), but goshdammit, I need to vent a bit in an unfiltered, unedited, uncut, wanton-swear-containing way.
So here I fucking am. (Sorry Mom.) And I feel better already! Deep satisfied breath.
So, now I can give you a bit of an update on my life this month outside of elephantjournal: Um, didn’t I just write that there hasn’t been one?
Not entirely true. I have met up with a pile of friends. Like in person and everything. III know! I didn’t even know I had friends! And here they all are. Hmph. Well, okay sure I knew I had some friends, but I didn’t realize how many and how much I really like these people! I’m even going to go out on a vulnerability limb here and say that I love this crew! And here they are right at home. As in my home town(s). As in childhood home town and adulthood home town.
(Though I may be susceptible to tears right now, don’t let that fool you, I am viscious!)
Speaking of home… Yeah, I’m still homeless but have found a place to stay with a new like-minded pal which means I’ll still technically be homeless but not living on the street—two different things—or living in my sister’s back yard in a ’79 Winnebago that smells like my aunt Gladys. Which wasn’t pleasant even when she was alive. (Be sure to scroll to end.)
So, whilst I was writing this I just got word that the surgery went well, though we won’t know until the surgeon gets the pathology results. Nonetheless, it is good news and I can lay off the treats. Until the next moon-time or life crisis or victory, that is. Like just one more rainy day or losing my mind or finding my keys or running low on shit-tickets1 or whatever.
1 Shit-tickets. Redneck slang for toilet paper.
By the way, here is a list of my elephant journal essays for this month. (Click to on the title to view.)
You get three page views per day unless you’re a subscriber, and no, I don’t get any of the donation dollars, which I am so going to suggest the Grand Poobah changes to some sort of sharing! Hello, smart marketing! People want to support Indi-artists, but especially if those starving (for chocolate) artists are also their friends. And I have friends! Yay!
My Other Writer’s Voice:
Win a bagel! aka What the hell was I thinking??