I haven’t written for anything other than here in a few years now. I had a nice little run for a couple of years where I got paid for my writing.

I mean, I wasn’t going to get rich, but it’s nice to get paid for art. It feels good.

Turns out, if you stop submitting your writing, then that all goes away.

I decided I’d jump back in. I’m ready. I can be funny. I can be clever. I can be insightful.

I’ll just find a few places to submit to, then I’ll slip back into the habit. Just like riding a bike. Or maybe a tricycle. With a helmet. And perhaps covered in bubble wrap.

So, I subscribed to a newsletter that provided information on where to post your work.

You guys.

I’m out of touch.

I only understood every few words in the submission descriptions.

These aren’t the real sites. But this is how they seemed to me.

Insouciant Midwestern Swine. Canadian authors only. This publication focuses on the plight of people in the Southwest, excluding Phoenix, AZ, who want to keep houseplants, but inevitably end up killing them. Word count between 12 and 2915 words. Special consideration will be given to submissions that are exactly 778 words long, including half the title words. But only if it’s an even number. Titles with an odd number of words and the story is exactly 778 words long will be held up for ridicule. Pay: .000000000000000003 bitcoin.

Chains, Bubblegum and Postage Stamps. This is a horror anthology. There is no theme, other than there is a definite theme. We really are excited to receive work from people who stick to the theme. Even though there isn’t one. Please, no stories about dolls that come to life, because those stories really scare us. Pay: two cents per word or nothing, but we won’t come to your house and kill you.

Glitter and Cat Vomit. This is a quarterly poetry anthology. The only rule is “no rhyming”. This is a hard-fast rule. No rhyming. No internal rhyming. No external rhyming. No “rhyme rhyme” rhymes with dime. About this rule, we are super serious. Don’t submit rhyming and make us psychotically furious. We don’t care if you think this is spurious. We also enjoy the lead singer of Hootie and the Blowfish, Darius. Actually, if you write a poem with “glitter”, “cat vomit” and “Darius Rucker” in it, then it can rhyme. But you can’t rhyme “Rucker” with “Fucker”. C’mon. Don’t mess it up for everyone else. Pay: Subscription to Cat Fancy magazine and artwork made out of fur balls.

Old Ladies Who Want To Write But Don’t Want To Put In Any Effort. Do the words “speculative” or “pitch” make you uncomfortable? Do you feel out of touch and not sure what anyone wants to read? Did you spend 8 months in your bedroom because there is an apocalypse and now your anxiety and depression have taken over? Are you sincerely terrified of driving to and from work because it seems like everyone on the road are maniacs now? Did you recently go back to the office and it seems extra gloomy and tense which really doesn’t help with the whole “Getting used to going back to work” thing? Then this is the place for you. Don’t worry too much about content. Just wait for your husband to say something absurd and write about it. We’ll totally publish it. Pay: Negative calorie cookies and 1 free pass to administer karmic justice to the person of your choice.

So, anyway. I have no idea what I want to write about. I have no idea where to submit. But if that last one were real? I’d be a queen on that site.

You know, I could talk about going back to the office, but since I have to do that again tomorrow, I’d prefer to pretend like it’s not a thing right now.

I guess I would sum up my first week back in my cubicle as horrific, but not as bad as I thought it would be. So, you know, a win? I guess?

In 2 days, Randy and I will mark the 26th anniversary of our first meeting.

We’ve had a lot of conversations in 26 years. I’m going to say a good 40% was just absurd.

Like the recent one we had.

Randy and I were watching some dude perform stand-up the other night and I thought he was pretty funny. Randy is a tough nut to crack and usually more critical than I am.

On the other hand, he has the sense of humor of a 4-year-old, so I take his criticisms with a grain of salt. And lemon. And a little tequila.

Anyway, the comedian started telling some airport/airplane jokes and Randy rolled his eyes hard enough to make the curtains flutter.

Randy: Really? Airport jokes? Everyone does airport jokes. They’ve been doing airport jokes since Fred Flintstone rode on a pterodactyl.

Me: Dude.

Me: Fred Flintstone never rode on a fucking pterodactyl.

Randy: Whatever. It’s still not funny.

Me: I dunno. My reason for wearing sunglasses when I fly is funny.

So, Randy and I have been together for 26 years. We’ve each flown many times over those years. But we’ve only flown together once in our lives and that happened the first year we were together. So, we don’t really have much experience at all with who the other person is when they fly.

Who I am is a terrified person. I fucking hate flying. It’s a bad idea. A huge hunk of metal hurtling above the earth? It’s absurd and terrifying.

But also convenient, so it’s not like I won’t fly. I just hate to fly.

I have this thing I do when I fly. I get in my seat. I pick a flight attendant and I watch them the entire flight. My theory is, as long as they don’t look afraid, then I probably won’t die in a fiery explosion. Probably.

So I was on this flight into Wichita, Kansas and it was a pretty rocky flight. At least by my standards. I’ve been on worse, but it seemed harrowing to me. The flight attendant I was watching seemed calm enough.

Right up until about 20 minutes before we landed.

I noticed her sort of furtively looking around. She got a little crease on her forehead. I mean, she wasn’t ready to scream or anything, but she definitely looked concerned.

I had an aisle seat on that flight.

Not long before we were all supposed to be locking down and preparing for landing, she stopped by my seat.

She asked me why I was staring at her.

I explained how I was a bad flyer and I gauged potential danger by watching the professionals.

She told me the flight was fine and not to worry.

We landed and everything was fine.

Since then, when I fly, I wear dark sunglasses.

Maybe, I should wear dark sunglasses to work tomorrow. Maybe, that will help.

I am heading back to the office one week from today, 10 days after my second Pfizer dose.  I am beyond grateful to be finished and ready to crawl out of my cave. Kind of.

A few days ago, I almost hurt my shoulder by patting myself on the back over how very tranquil I was feeling about going back to the office.

Sure, commuting sucks, but I’ve done this shit for decades now. I’m a pro at cube farming. I am a cubicle-dwelling beast. It’s all good.

I’m pining for that day now.

I’m not quite so tranquil now. I have a tranquility deficit, but I’m making up for that with an added heap of steamy anxiety. My circular thoughts had grown lazy over the past half dozen months or so. It’s not that they left me, but they were less insistent. Sort of like they were floating on a lazy river at a waterpark or something.

Well, now that my reintroduction to being around other humans is imminent, my circular thoughts have snapped to attention.

Go go go go. Let’s move it. Vacation is over sweet britches. You are out of shape. We’ve got some major catching up to do. 

It’s not just the circular thoughts. My reaction to easily explained occurrences is ridiculous.

For instance, I expected to hear from my older son over the weekend. I didn’t hear from him Saturday, which is only half the weekend, and started getting a little tense. I called him a few times and texted him. Nothing. I asked Joey if he had talked to his brother and he said that Zach called earlier, but he was asleep and missed the call. It gave me vague comfort. At least, I had solid intel that he was okay until around noon on Saturday.

There are so many reasons this may happen.

He could have been busy. His phone could be dead or lost or in a different room. Perhaps, he just wasn’t in the mood to talk. But is that where my mind went? By Sunday morning, I was fairly certain what happened.

Well, it’s become apparent that it could be only one thing. He’s gone. He’s in a ditch. 

I did not voice my fears to Randy or Joey. I was stoic.

I went about my morning and puttered about. I got ingredients together to do some baking. I even looked for a cabin for a little getaway next month.

I doubt you will be ready to travel by then. But maybe it will be for the best. 

Later, I got a text from Zach. He was sick as hell from his shot and spent the day in bed.

I literally had to sit on my bed cross-legged and rock back and forth for a good ten minutes while I processed that my son was actually not dead and that my anxiety was truly kicking my ass. I’m not going to lie. I’m still shaky. I have no strength in my arms and my fingers are trembly. I’m having to backspace a lot while typing this.

I’m concerned about how I’m going to fit all the new circular thoughts in with the ones I used to have in the mornings while driving to work. I mean, there is only so much time to think on the commute and if you don’t think about the same thing at least two or three times, do you even have circular thoughts at all?

I’m not sure which of the old thoughts I can give up.

Will it be the Sooner or later, a semi is going to smash you to bits on your way to work, or You’re probably going to fall down in front of people today. It will be spectacular. 

I also don’t know how many new thoughts are coming. So far, I have this list:

What if when I go back, no one talks to me?

OMFG, what if they DO talk to me?

I probably look ridiculous now with my unicorn hair. They’re going to laugh at me.

And you care about that why? Let people laugh. I don’t care.

Maybe I could perform my new interpretive dance. I can call it “Fuck off, don’t talk to me” and then I’ll get in a fetal position under my desk, screw my eyes shut and just blindly flip everyone off. 

What if I really did get too weird to be around people?

I guess the answer to that last question is: I’ll find out soon enough.

You know, in a week. Or 7 days or 168 hours or 10,080 minutes or 604,800 seconds. Give or take a few minutes.

I also realize I totally fucked that math up because it’s really 8 days from now, not 7. But I’m not going through that exercise again because I’m already dealing with enough and fuck math. Also, if I am completely honest, I didn’t write this on Monday, even though you are reading it on Monday, so it’s more like 9 days from now. Or 8 days and a number of hours. Like I said. I’m not doing any more math.

Well, except I was actually right about the number of days if today were really Monday, then my number of days is correct since I am starting at the beginning of next Monday, not the end of next Monday. I don’t know anymore. Math has pissed me off since 1969.

Also, I have been super shitty about answering comments. Sorry guys. I read them and I cherish them. I am just having a bit of a lethargy issue. Anxiety is so fucking demanding.

I know I am far from the only person dealing with this. I have an amazing family and friends who I love and who love me. We are healthy. I am grateful.

Still, next week is going to be difficult.

This helped. My fingers aren’t trembly anymore. I can take a deep breath.

I’m going to go do some baking and not worry about the next 648,000 seconds. Give or take a few minutes. Or maybe a day. I don’t fucking know. God.