The more I enjoy what I write, the less people enjoy reading it. Or so I assume. I have been writing posts that don't make much sense, yes, but Jesus H. Buddha they are fun to write. The less sense I make, the better. Lucky for me! I haven't been making much sense since 1984!
Kids really really super absolutely 100% need to be taught manners. Do yer job, you darn parents! It's great your child is involved in 475 extracurricular activities and knows how to catch pokemons, but could you take a sec to teach them how to not be deplorable creatures? AND WHILE YOU'RE AT IT, STAY OFF MY LAWN/TURN DOWN THAT DARN ROCK 'N ROLL/PULL UP YOUR PANTS!!!
I have no idea what I'm doing or where I'm going and it terrifies me.
Okay, I lied. I do know of one place where I'm going: Spinsterville. It's a town of spinsters, or rather a spinster. The population of Spinsterville is 1 and that 1 is yours truly.
I gotta worry less about online bullies and people I've never met disliking me for goofy reasons based off of fabricated tales. I shouldn't have to feel like I'm in high school at the age of 32. I should be way way waaay beyond that. I should be putting my child's macaroni art on the fridge while teaching them the importance of please and thank you and excuse me, can I have more porridge? If I was a mother, we'd eat a lot of porridge in my house and my angelic children would always politely ask for more more more -- not for themselves, but for the starving kids of the world. Bless my perfect children named Fallopian and Dog. (Fallopian and Dog are arguably wonderful names for humans to have. Have these names. Let's not argue about it. You'll thank me later, Fallopian.)
For the love of... It's only 2:45 in the afternoon? Why can't it be midnight? It feels like midnight, except it doesn't feel like midnight because at midnight I feel a lot more awake and happy and chill-as-fuuuuh. The mid-afternoon slump (right now) is rough. Everything feels like molasses. My mind, my words, my body, my thoughts. Slow slow slow. But high in iron! Here's your spoonful of blackstrap molasses, you pale, pale child. Drink up and feel your red blood cells multiply.
I got nothin'. Guess it's time to put on an eclectic coat and wacky hat and wander the streets of Spinsterville, stopping by the junkyard to find treasures. I can search for a purpose in life inside the tin cans someone forgot to recycle.