The tale of the ocean and the teacher

Maybe it isn't about what music you listen to, or what you believe in. The clothes you wear or the job you go to. Your past and the people who mark you. Who you go home to at night, and how you share your bed.  The God you worship or the blow you snort that helps you forget it. The family you do or don't have.  Maybe it isn't about the food you don't eat, the scars on your body you did yourself with a razor, or the pills you put in your body that evens you out. How many times you fucked up, or that you keep fucking up. The kids you didn't have, the things you didn't do, the places you didn't go. The house you lost or the people who won't stay.  Mistakes you made. Or even the picture perfect life you built, that doesn't make you happy. The things you think define you.

But, maybe it's about learning you're here to learn, and you don't have a fucking thing figured out and that's okay. Taking chances and not taking for granted the ones given to you. Doing the right thing, being the good for somebody else, and fighting for who you want to be. Whatever you need, you're the only one who can save you. You're here to learn that. It will come in waves. You learn first the way the salty water tastes, and how it shrivels up your fingertips, how it bogs you down and takes away all your air. Then, the waves slow and it throws you to the surface, to the world full of oxygen and transient reprieve. And when you go back under, thats the part where you get strong. You'll have to fight and you'll get tired. You're not here to apologize. You're not here to be perfect. You're not here to be perfect. You're here to be you. Don't quit.

First you learn, and then you cope, and then you keep going. So, keep going.

The tale of the human milkshake

So, it's 10pm. I'm hungry. I've been in bed most of the day. I walk out the door with a sweater on, my long sock warmers with the Down Syndrome animal face with the floppy ears, and my pajama shorts that, evidently since I'm fat, disappear under my tshirt and sweater somewhere into another universe when I sit down. I want a burger, so I roll up to McDonald's, order my shit and pull up to the window, and as I am giving the older gentlemen with a McDonald's themed tie up around his neck so far he probably uses that to strangle himself when he jerks off---he smiles and since where he is standing is much higher than where I am sitting in my Japanese plastic with wheels, he looks down and then flashes an even bigger smile. I'm completely oblivious at this point because I'm hungry and I just want my fucking food. Then, I put my card away after I tell him to have a good night, I hear him say, "oh, it has been," and I, very audibly, over America's "Lonely People" say JESUS CHRIST.

As I rolled up to get my food from the very lovely young lady at the second window, who will in just a moment get to see proof of what tall tales the older gentlemen with the masturbation neck tie from the first register has slipped a second away from his post to tell her, I just smiled and thought, fuck it. Either way, I get my burger. That's probably going in the spank bank for the old man, and maybe give that girl either something to look forward to, up to, or away from. The last thing she heard out of my vehicle was the end of the chorus of "lonely people": "don't give up until you drink from the silver cup, you never know until you try." Accurate. Good luck, sweetheart. Don't let the old man touch ya with his tie.

The tale of vomit, murder, and the spaceship

I woke up this morning with liquids coming outta my North and South America. I tried to go to work, but I shit my pants and puked like a toddler on myself, so I had to come home. Mariah Carey said at her NYE performance it doesn't get any better. She was right.

Once I felt like my stent in the bathroom spewing spring and autumn was kinda done, I watched Apollo 13. I went to see that in the theater when it came out. I was 9. I was miserable because it was like a 12 hour fucking movie (not true) and I had poison ivy on my thighs that had started to leak, and so when I went to the bathroom I couldn't pull my pants down because my elephantgirl skin was stuck to my shorts. Fast forward to today, and it's just like old times. I shouldn't have to spoon feed you that I also shit my pants that day, but I blame it on the stress of Tom Hanks getting lost. I still love Tom Hanks, though.

I slept and then one of the dogs and I played a murder game on my phone called "Criminal Case," where you gotta find  body parts in gardens and shit and solve crimes. She jumped in my lap like she was ready for something so I said, "Let's find some dead people Hazel," so we did. I used her paw to touch the items when we found them in the scavenger hunt, we got points, we watched an autopsy, and we put a cartoon character behind bars for a grisly murder. We were like Cagney and Lacey. Or Rizzoli and Isles.

I don't really know what the point of this was, but I guess the moral of the story is don't feel bad if you're sick and you shit yourself. Also, don't travel with Tom Hanks or you'll end up lost or stuck in a bathroom trying to figure out how to pull down  your jean shorts stuck to your chunky, poison ivy thighs before you shit yourself. Either way, you're probably gonna shit yourself, sometime. They say, "well, it can only go up from here," but I'm here to tell you that isn't true. It can get way worse.

The tale of the 30 year old.

Let me tell you something about being 30.

Okay. Maybe I don't know a whole lot yet, I've only been this age for a few months. But, I'll tell you what nobody told me. 

Your body hurts. All the time. Aleve is like a vitamin, now. You roll your eyes at children  and say words like "racket" and "CPAP mask." Your knees lock up and pop like the last 15 seconds of microwave popcorn, and you get calls from your doctor about blood tests that are a reminder you've got a better chance of getting diabetes than meeting somebody who isn't hiding mall blueprints in his 1995 two-door red Toyota Tercel. The one with the faded paint job. 

You learn about background checks and mugshots and people who think they're smarter than you are, but have been in and out of trouble more times than a Waffle House hooker. Heads up, bitch wears a tiara that says "party like it's 1999." Prince would be proud. 

You learn about medications like lisinopril and mirapex and Prozac. Your doc gives you creams for your dry vagina and pills for your dick that doesn't work. Your boobs sag, every five pounds you gain feels like a 10 pound bag of tears strapped to your ass, thighs, and belly and you start cursing Kirstie Alley and Marie Osmond daily. Your doctor asks you if you want meds for your hairloss, before you noticed you were really losing any. And then you go cry in a corner and listen to The Carpenter's. But, then you take the uppers he gave you and it's all good. 

But, it ain't all bad. If you still have hope, you start to think babies are cute. If you're single, and you have lady parts, you think you could maybe raise one on your own. You look at your job, do you want to go back to school? What do you want to be when you grow up? And if you had a tiny human to look after, would they look up to you and tell you that you're their hero? Is this a part of your plan? Should it, is it supposed to happen? You're only 30, they say. It's never too late. 

But, when you finally pull your head out of the those white, puffy, fucking clouds of hope, you start to think about your standards; and are they too high or too low and maybe losing 15 pounds will help you feel better, but you don't because you don't have the energy to work out, or the money to go buy the clothes, and working out in front of women who are 15 years younger and 60 pounds lighter than you, in heels and makeup isn't exactly the ideal component of a weight loss plan. 

You start reading self help books. You maybe think about going to church. You read about other religions and you wonder about the meaning of life, your purpose, and if God is really a chick or a dude with blonde hair and blue eyes. You look in the mirror and you say, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough," and whatever Stuart Smalley said. You adopt more animals because they lay by you when you're sick and they comfort you when you're sad and they make your life complete without doing much more than just existing. And maybe you hope you can be that for somebody else someday. 

You learn positivity is important, and your time is exceedingly valuable. You start to say "Ain't got time fa dat" A LOT, but it isn't a joke, because you really don't. You don't have time for bullshit or games or seasonal people. You deserve to be stood by, but also to be told when you're being an asshole. But, nicely, so you don't have to bury anybody. 

The first month after you turn 30, a lot changes. You get tired, your brain feels different. Literally, you feel different. I'm not kidding. It's like somebody changes your inner clock from a shitty digital Velcro watch from Walmart to a fancy watch with information on it like date and time and the moon cycle because you're probably going to get Alzheimer's soon and that's necessary information. You get sad, your local liquor store dude knows you by name, and your coworkers and Aunt Diane keep asking you when you're getting married. You go on blind dates with guys named Todd and Bryce and have to listen to women talk about their kids with shitty names like Brylynn and Brayklynn and Breesdin. So much with the Br names. Your parents offer to sign you up for Match.com, and you know they're only trying to help. 

If you're 30, and you're alone, you're not. You're probably a good person, you have some friends, and I hope they love you. Adopt an animal or five, give them the best life. Eat ice cream for breakfast and try not to to buy too much shit on Amazon. Read books before you see the movies and always ask the dude you're on a date with what his parents do for a living and what his mom is like. If for nothing else, you know what you're in for over the holidays if shit goes well. 

As Mrs. Doubtfire once said, all my love to you, poppet. You're going to be just fine.