There's some rumor going around that 40 is the new 30, and hopefully that crap is true. I don't feel 39. I feel like my head is up my ass like I did at 29, just not as deep. There's some light at the end of the butt-tunnel, unlike ten years ago, when all there was nothing but shit for as far as the eye could see.
I don't know where ten years went. I mean, I KNOW where they went, but I cannot believe they went the way they did. A two year hospital "stay," a two year trip to the e-wilds of internets, two marriages, a new family, two homes, three jobs, a layoff, a relapse here-n-there, and an odd revolving door of people.
Though I haven't been posting as much as I want to, the ideas have been piling up. I have this giant, metropolis sized pile of post its that house my so called creativity, scribbled in shorthand during red light stops or in line at the drive thru D&D. I just add that stuff to the endless note book of shit that lists what I'm supposed to be doing around the house so I can answer people with a straight face when they ask "what do you do?"
And then they stare at me. They don't ask why. They just say "must be nice."
Sometimes it is. Sometimes it's hell because I spend all my time organizing how I'll spend my time. It's a futile battle, because by doing that, time is totally wasted. I asked for pills to help me push through, but the powers that be said that they're worried I'll stay awake for a month straight, stop eating, and drop to a size 4 like that last time.
As if it was such a bad thing. They're just jealous. Haters! I was productive and skinny, just like society deems all people to be.
Am I any closer to being the person I ever thought I'd become? Thankfully, no. But I'm starting to like myself more, and it only took me 30 some years to begin to be able to do that.
I'm glad to say that my biggest dramas these days is that my sick cat peed on the wall and then tried to dry hump my other sick cat. I'm not sure when the cat got freaky, but I do know there's now a water bottle with his name on it. Dry humping is one thing. Golden showers is a big Bozo No-No. My home is not one of ill-repute. Dirty lil' pussy cat.
Life begins at 40, which is the new 30. Which means I have an extra 10 years to pull my head completely out of my ass, and for that, I am forever grateful.