Some days I am so super glad that I’m already more than halfway there.

I wake up happy to be 58 some days, just because I do not want to live through the weirdness of the future we are stacking up on our progeny, brick by brick, day by day.

Society has already changed so much in my relatively short time on earth; I do not have it in me to change my music format again, or to learn yet another version of the same fucking Word program, only MORE stupid than the last and MORE expensive. Yay.

Am I a crabby old lady today? Probably. I find myself extremely weary of this whole, entire banana stand. I crown the current date, Fuck This Entire Timeline Day, henceforth and to wit.

And now for the estimation of damages, Jim.

(We can’t push her any harder she’s going to come apart! This particle beam of feces has a strong hold on us, sir. We’re losing power.)

We’ve (and by ‘we’ I mean me and my seven other browser tabs I have open in my brain) already started to have eating psychosis about accidentally ingesting a shred of lettuce; now we have to add blueberries and chocolates to the list of things that might make our bowel explode (again) from a parasite.

As someone who survived a trio of shitfecta parasites and wished for death for about 6 weeks every single day without fail, I can say with a modicum of surety that you do not want that smoke (coming from your butthole because you are quite literally shitting yourself to death) and learning to grow your own food is really the only answer to the problem.

This is a good thing that will come of watching all our protective social services regarding food safety go completely to hell, set themselves on fire, and stay there with an overworked butthole, just happy to be free of shitting themselves to death.

People are trending ‘backwards’ towards learning to grow their own lettuce (which is really fairly easy and space considerate) and having their own chickens (which aren’t laying murder eggs) if the ordinance in their area allows for it. (You’d be surprised. I live in a very urban area and the city code allows chickens. Roosters seem to be the gray area and I can assure you your neighbors will despise you if you have screaming roosters at 4AM, but hey, I’ve got eggs available across the alley that don’t murder me, so there’s that.)

We’ll learn. Again. Or we’ll perish. Again.

This is about the eighth time the human race got stuck at this point in time before self-destructing and starting again.

It would be cooler if we didn’t go all the way this time and allowed change to happen as it should in a world where science magic is literally possible and touching the stars only requires washing your own face. Or holding your friend’s hand, no matter what color it is.

(Big nod to The Biological Imagination for the star thing. That was beautiful. You’d know if you read him. DO. IT.)

Them’s just the facts, kids. The gubmint ain’t gonna be fixed any time soon. This absolute dumpster fire shit show will take more generations than I will live naturally to outgrow and hopefully, learn from.

It will be interesting for the future to read about how the colors red and orange became taboo.

(Still hoping for a future that tries to learn from this exercise in locking ourselves in a jar without poking holes in the top…again. I have enough Silly Goose in me to continue to hope. She’s one of my seven browsers - Silly Goose, Shocked Shitless, Not Surprised, Alarmed as Fuck, Stabby as Hell, Tired as Fuck Your Nicknames, and Screamy McKickyourass. All accounted for. Say hello to my little friends…)

I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t wear a red hat if Jesus Christ hisself told me to. Red hats make people insane. Whatever the Chinese are sewing into those hatbands to dissolve mind function and empathy to sub-human levels is working and you can bet your sweet ass I’ve noticed and learned. Never again with red on my head. Call me crazy all you want. I don’t give a dirty rat’s ass, thankyouverymuch.

Orange and black were our ‘colors’ when we did our trucking gig. Our truck was…you guessed it…orange and black. Our custom trucker shirts were orange and black, everything was orange and fucking black including the logo of the company we sold merch for.

I have consciously removed the color orange from most everything in my home since. The only reason I eat oranges anymore is because I enjoy ripping the orange skin off before I eat the guts like a savage and thinking, “I will miss oranges when there are no more trees…”

I may or may not draw a little face underneath a terrible toupee on them before stripping away their outside flesh.

Do with that what you will.

It’s pretty much the only orange I bring into my home. I did keep my favorite orange plate I won’t give up because it is perfectly balanced and if you understand that you are my people.

The color orange is physically repulsive to me. It says, “Danger Will Robinson, someone is looking to sexually abuse a child!”

It will never be anything else to me.

Ever. He actually ruined orange. How much of a fuck up do you have to be to ruing a color associated with sunshine? Jaysus, kids. Time to wrap this pity party because Screamy McKickyourass is flashing red on the ol’ ‘you’re gonna get a visitor,’ meter.

And so the show goes on. Will The Newman family finally intermarry enough to create a grandchild with flippers? Stay tuned to CBS and find out, in between state sponsored media approved by Bari The Widest, who loves her some King Kiddiddler.

By the by, CBS is another casualty during my lifespan. I turned it off when Gayle King got into a giant dildo and flew high enough to call herself an astronaut while Katy Perry made sure everyone saw her tits at zero gravity.

It has never been back on long enough to say anything but, “Get that shit off my TV,” before being flushed to the ether with the remote, which is one of the only truly useful things we have for our own personal convenience these days.

Yeeeeeeeeee Haaaaaaaw!

Do you feel better about being old? I sure as fuck do. I think I will continue to Breathe, if I must. Please be safe out there and don’t forget to turn it up.

(Side note: This little band did not get the love they deserved. We got a demo cut, or something, of their (I believe) only CD and every single song is tits. Get you some Loud Lucy, turn it up and touch some grass. There’s more of us than them. Never forget that.)