So how long was I out?

Yeah, no, don’t answer that, thanks.

Let’s get some stuff out of the way, first. Somewhere, about three or four years ago, maybe six to ten months after I posted on the old blog, I ran out of every last fuck ever. I’m still searching for them.

No, wait. I lied. I do that a lot… say stupid little things I don’t mean. Innocent little things that mainly society expects, you know. “I lied.” “I’m sorry.” “My name is Margaret. Sure!” But the fucks thing? I’m not looking for them anymore. Truly, it is easier. They want to run free all over the countryside, those little fucks? Fine. Go. I have better things to do.

I lied again. Or maybe more accurately I have better uses of my time than worrying about them. I have better uses for my time than worrying in general. Most of us do, I think.

So I stopped. Not worrying. God, I still do that, even though I know how fucking pointless it is. I stopped worrying about what the hell is going on with my health. I still feel like shit. I used to make sense when I talked and wrote… and now? It’s frustrating. I mean, this is quite clearly a bunch of semi coherent verbal barf. But it is coherent.

Tangent: I had some neuropysch testing because I do seriously have issues with aphasia. Increasingly. Mostly things don’t look right to me when I write them. Then I’ll forget what something is called and just use the words “hand soap.” (I also answer to Margaret, but that’s a different story.) What we learned from this is I have horrible fine motor skills and only slightly better gross motor skills. I have no executive function or ability to recognize patterns. I have no spatial awareness. I don’t have a working memory and math is… If I ever had any math skills (which I really didn’t), I do not any longer. I can not count. Not forward. Not backward. Not skipping every third number. But my verbal skills are the fucking dog’s balls (which I wrote originally as “fucking the dog’s balls” which means something else if you look too hard.) They aren’t what they used to be, for sure. People who are not me have noticed. But they are still head and shoulders above 97% of the population. It’s just the one skill I still sort of have, so when it goes, I really, really miss it. End tangent.

But I do feel like I should use those words while I have them. I also use more of the four letter sort than I used to because it is like brain lube. Sorry. If you don’t like it, life is too short. Really. Either deal or go seek other routes to happiness, because I make sailors blush.

So I still feel like shit. My brain is still an asshole, and my ass… hurts, actually. Whatever, though. And in ceasing to care somewhat, I also found it kinda freeing. Yay apathy that isn’t depression, I guess? Because, you know, yeah. It’s easier when you let the fucks run free.

Stuff has happened in the last four years. Okay. I’ve lost people I loved deeply and what kinda blows my mind is how I think about them every day since they’ve died and I know I didn’t while they were still here. And it has now happened enough that I expect that it will happen, but it is still fucking flooring to me when it happens. The only exception are the more sudden departures. And I suddenly realize I don’t feel great talking about that right now, because it is real fucking fresh and the fact that this lady is gone is still very not real to me. And I talk and it gets real. So I find myself thinking about this woman every day, like, “Oh man, when she sees this I can’t wait to hear her laugh…” and I realize I will not hear her laugh again and it fucking kills me.

So thanks for making me cry. Assholes.

I’ve traveled, courtesy of Mr. Shoe’s dad being very generous and having previously fallen in love with Easter Island so much that he wanted to share it with somebody or other, so he chose Mr. Shoe and me. I’m glad he fell in love with Easter Island and not like… Jerusalem. No offense, Jerusalem, because I am sure you are a lovely city, but I do not think I could handle you. Anyway, it was good to go somewhere where everyone had a second or third or fourth language that was English, because… it is good to be out of your comfort zone. Also, by default, every language I learn from here on out I will speak with a French accent.

Except French, which I just do wrong. Thanks to my shit high school French teacher who made Mr. Shoe and I pathologically afraid to fucking speak a foreign language in front of people. I can read and understand French reasonably well, but I just stutter endlessly because someone thought it was a great learning tool to shame the living shit out of awkward fifteen year olds trying something new. Great teaching strategy, bitch. Because we learned that shame for life.

And we moved. Not far, which is even more frustrating. I do very much like where we ended up, but it doesn’t mean I am not bullshit over the fact we had to do it. We traded eighteen years of familiar house quirks and noises for a house that is older and has had more owners who had more fucking stupid ass ideas about what the hell you are supposed to use caulk and expanding foam and newspaper and electrical tape for.  If I ever get a fucking time machine, I will go back to 1989, find the piece of shit that nailed replacement windows in the nearly completely rotted original window framework and then sloped the motherfucking flashing in the wrong way. Also, our hardwood floors aren’t hardwood floors. They’re wood putty floors. They are entirely wood putty.

You guys know I am going to share my fond memories of house hunting, right? I have both Property Brothers caulked to a busted picnic bench in the basement and I am trying to figure out how these adorable motherfuckers are such horrible, nasty liars. Liars. Sonofbitches.

Also, the guy in the White House? Fuck that guy. Fuck that guy right in his fucking ear.

But now… Now I am going to stop. Maybe you’ll hear from me before another four years is out.