New year. Newly reformatted brain. Might as well dress like a lost Rolling Stone groupie that got caught in a time vortex, just for funsies.
That 70s glitter rock aesthetic pretty much works with the I’m chronically ill, possibly contagious, and/or dying slowly. Which is, in fact, true. I can’t pull off sweet old lady who bakes pies anymore, tho that is also age appropriate.
Nothing says I don’t get out much like a large empty driveway heaping with unshovelled snow. Some person on Nextdoor has a big issue with unshovelled driveways, but that is absolutely beyond my physical capacity as a Long COVID post coma 5’4″ single chick.
And nothing says “single chick,” like a wedding ring on each hand for each ex wife. The first RIP. The second doing hard time.
Last week when I had some sort of fever bug, I prayed to stay alive until my nine year sobriety date. That’s a big fucking deal for me. Say what you will about Cali Sober. Or taking life saving psychiatric medication. I’ll not say what I was addicted to along with alcohol nine years ago. Read my books instead.
My sobriety date is January 27th, 2014. Most of the last decade was incredible, keys to a kingdom and productivity. We’ll just shove to the side the last few years I want to forget very much. In which I did not use. But another used me. An expert con artist.
La esposa malisima gave me COVID right when she was BFFs with an ER nurse, who would of course have access to all sort of the most deadly disease cultures. I didn’t die, but the part of me that could ever love or trust again did, along with multiple body functionalities.
How am I supposed to not be bitter? Come on.
Be glad you’re not on a date with me listening to this crap, I swore I wouldn’t do that to anyone. I don’t think that sort of thing is even possible anymore.
Sharing air can be deadly. Emotions? Oh hell no.
Words on screens and page are all.
Andrea Lambert 