I’m sitting on my couch—in pants—drinking a protein shake listening to Amanda Palmer belt out sad ballads with a miserable dog is sitting next to me moping—just because that’s what she does—while I am away from my husband just two weeks from Christmas; how could my night possibly get any worse? Well, actually it could be a lot worse and I’m not complaining at all. People complain too fucking much, myself included. Somebody somewhere is having something terrible happen to them right now and my life is and has always been fucking fantastic in retrospect—I own pants and I’m alive. (I won’t bring up pants next time, I promise. I’d never lie to you, Reader.)
Like my dog, I too have been really mopey lately. (Some of you might choose to respond to that with a laugh while quietly saying to yourself “more like a complete asshole, really.” and I respect that because it’s probably true. I’m an asshole when I’m not happy.) But I have no reason to be unhappy. The other night—the one I blogged about in my last entry—while laying in bed at three in the morning unable to sleep, debating making tea, a thought went through my mind that I didn’t feel like I could bring up when I published the entry. I felt that I was unhappy, I may have even cried a little bit.
Three hours later on the other side of the country—which really isn’t that far away, I know, I drove there and back once—twenty children were slaughtered. When I found this out, after my initial reaction of “why in the fuck did I look at the news website when I avoid it for these reasons,” I couldn’t help but think of how fucking ridiculous it was for me to feel unhappy only a few hours earlier.
Life is hard, short and fragile—shut the fuck up and enjoy it.
P.S. There were zero typos prior to spellchecking this, I must be dreaming.
P.P.S. Exactly two of you asked for this, but you all secretly wanted it.
P.P.P.S. I know, it’s not in focus. Deal with it.
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