Mason jar of whiskey in my bathrobe pocket.

(Original post from January 2018.)

 The Universe has been pretty annoying lately with imploring me to get back to writing. From my dream wedding in September when all the intuitive, spiritual people in my life met each other for the first time and all agreed that I needed to write again and still continue to text me about it, to a very persistent Tarot card that keeps showing up, to when I fell on some black ice a couple weeks ago and fractured my tibia.

Wait. One of those things is not...

Except, well. Maybe it kind of is? I don't know, I don't necessarily believe that "everything happens for a reason," in fact, sometimes the atoms in this universe randomly crash together in ways that are pretty inconvenient. However, as this year began, I've been thinking a lot about the role that your choices play in the direction your life takes. So it's at this moment, sitting on our lumpy futon in my filthy bathrobe, with a massive green cast that goes from my toes to my crotch, drinking whiskey out of a jar and watching perhaps my 400th episode of Parks & Rec today, I totally forgot the fucking point I meant to make because it's been so long since I constructed a sentence that didn't end with me hitting "send" on an email client.

Thank you in advance for your attention to this matter. Please let me know if you need anything further, Kind Regards, Your Esteemed Colleague Who Gets Nothing but Rapturous Joy Sending You Five Emails per Week About the Same Goddamn Item and Could Probably Speed Things up by Picking up the Phone but Refuses to Based Partially on an Irrational Fear of the Telephone but Mostly on the Principle Goddammit,

Amy

I may have made some of that correspondence up.

Oh, right, so anyway, I decided that if the Universe was going to fuck my shit up by breaking my leg, I might as well try to produce something during this time and write some stuff, however inane and rambling. It's my Frida Kahlo moment, so to speak, minus, y'know, the talent and the rampant bisexual extramarital affairs.

So. If you've managed to read this far, welcome back to my blog. Please ignore the time stamps, for time is but a construct that just exists to make us feel bad about not progressing at the same pace as our peers. As John Fogerty once sang, "Oh don't go 'round tonight/It's bound to take your life/There's a bad moon on the rise." Uh. Sorry, my husband just put on a Creedence record and I'm kind of drunk over here. You know what I'm trying to say. Right?