Since my experience with bad shit that happens to good people, I have been a walking, talking shit show.
I’ve slept on my couch for the past four months, find it hard to be alone, don’t love my mini manse the way I used to, started a new job, adopted three cats, threw up in my car (soberly), shit in my car (while talking soberly to my drive thru pharmacist as if nothing was happening), developed adjustment issues, eat every single emotion that I experience, then don’t eat for three days in a row, was granted a girls trip of a lifetime to Mexico by two walking saints, have nerves that never go away, my feelings have been boiling for four months now and every.single.little.thing is a major issue, an ex-boyfriend and friend of over 11 years put me in my proverbial place, another man in my life has thrown major shade, the family dynamics I’m used to have shifted in ways that I can’t control, my bank account was hacked on Friday, meaning for three to five business days I’m broke and my usually positive self is more and more negative by the day and I want to fire me from myself.
All of that being said, I’m a swinging pendulum of highest highs and lowest lows. Listening to my therapist hero, Miss Sheila, I’m just trying to take one day at a time and find joy in the little things. Like, the Country Music Festival (that used to be called Fan Fair and really, still should be) that took place in Nashville over the weekend.
Naturally, when work called for a White Trash Bash party in honor of the tens of thousands of tourists pouring their hard-earned money into my beloved Nashville, I was beyond happy to participate in something celebratory.
Tattoos not permanent.
And blow off some steam I did.
Seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time.
I enjoyed myself so much that I got on stage. In a very popular downtown honk tonk. In overall shorts. And sang. With braids in my hair. In overall shorts. And cowboy boots. And forgot the words to a song I’ve sung 1.578.987 times with my ’80s cover band. In overall shorts. And my new boss captured it all on film.
Needing an S.O.S. from life. Immediately.
Thankfully I snagged a safe ride home but my grown ass needed a way to get to my vehicle the following day. What would we do without women who arrive in chariots with the best hangover food ever?
My personal Uber, complete with snacks.
Once my body full of nerves returned back to the mini manse, I was once again in the throes of my emotions – and according to Miss Sheila – I loathe feeling feelings.
Adulting has been so difficult lately that I’ve started to identify with a local Nashville Mexican joints social media postings….
But instead of being full of tacos I was left in bed with a bunch of fur balls.
Forensic Files Friday night.
Wallowing in self
shame, embarrassment, pity I was invited last second to meet up with some old work colleagues (and friends) and decided it best for me to socialize.
Old friends. Good friends. Fun times.
I then decided to take up smoking – and surprisingly it took the edge off about 12 of my 3,794,579,000 nerves.
I asked for a puff and got the whole shebang.
Other friends made me piss my pants by shopping the local racks of the store I hate more than anything in the world for tank tops to wear to Bonnaroo.
I loathe Walmart but NEED that tank.
Another reason to stay off the couch and keep moving was a pre-celebration opening at a buddy’s new bar. It’s dog friendly, so you know that Presh, Dada CBXB and yours truly were on hand to party.
Hot Saturday date night!
Bird Lady also made an appearance in my weekend, as did another inappropriate t-shirt that is now one of my faves.
Just wearing my emotions.
Much like my buddy at Dalts, who wouldn’t give me this t-shirt because his girlfriend gave it to him.
You show me your kitties, I show you mine.
Four feline mouths to feed keep me going.
And my mini lion chug Precious, of course.
Naturally anything from my Iowa twins puts a grin on my gigantic mouth breather.
I mean, those faces!
But most of all, I have to keep getting off of my leopard couch, braving emotions, feelings, checking account robbers and put one foot in front of the other for my favorite pussy, my best friend, my main squeeze, Mr. Ted E. Bear (who is costing almost as much as rent with his meds these days but you know (and he knows) he’s worth every goddamn cent).
Forever the king of my castle.
My new life mantra for my therapist prescribed “day-by-day” attack on life was passed onto me by one of my besties, Whitney Lover.
I’ll drink to that…every damn day.
Thanks to you – readers, social media buddies, real life friends, co-workers, family, kind strangers – for sticking by your hot mess of a shit show. Here’s hoping you’re sucking a little less each and every day this week.
Love ya, mean it.