Starting another year.
2022. That was interesting.
I’m hoping 2023 gives us a little light at the end of the tunnel. And the end of the tunnel, will be a land of multiple orgasms and cotton candy. Or something like that.
I go through end-of-the-year mortality anxiety every fucking year.
This year was awful. I am much better now. I’m not less scared to die or less worried I’m already sick, but I am sick of myself worrying about death. So, progress?
I think I need to step back and focus on smaller things than life and death.
That’s just too much. I need to scale it back and worry about something not quite so, well, life changing. Or ending as it were.
For instance, why is “fuck you and the horse you road in on” a saying? Why? What did the horse even do? Probably nothing.
And if you are a human with a vagina and you use that saying? Are you really thinking this through? Hmmmm? Because I don’t think you’re considering that scenario would actually work out.
Humans are weird. A saying about horse fucking should not be so widely used.
I bet if horses could talk, then the only question they would have would be “Before you ride in anywhere on me, is there anyone who wants to fuck you and will that spill over onto me?”
Or, am I taking that particular saying too seriously?
Getting older is definitely on my mind as 60 is less than 2 months away.
Getting older is trippy. So many things change. I don’t taste things the same anymore. I can’t see very well. Even my sense of smell has been changing. I’m noticing smells I’ve never noticed before and I don’t like any of them.
Like the other day. I got out of the shower and I bent over at the waist because I was rubbing shea butter into my calves. When I bent over, I got a whiff of something. Something that bought to mind the floor of an ancient forest. Or maybe the rotting corpse of a wood nymph. That, and I don’t know…broken promises?
I did panic for a minute. Is that me? What? No. I just got out of the shower. Of course it’s not me. For all that is holy, that smelled like a dead wood chuck. Is…is that my bathroom floor? What the fuck?
I mean, it’s fair to say my bathroom could use a nice sprucing up, but it shouldn’t smell like the secret elephant burial ground, either. It had to be the bathroom floor. Because if that smell is coming out of me, then my mortality anxiety is justified and I won’t be here much longer.
It’s all good now. I fixed the problem. I just stopped bending over at the waist. I just don’t do that anymore.
I bet that is a phrase the over 60 crowd uses all the time. “I don’t do that anymore.”
I best this is how the old lady smell starts. We get a little hint of what is in our future and we just go “No. Nope, That isn’t a thing. It didn’t happen. I didn’t smell anything. I’m not dying. Everything is fine..”
Either that, or I really need to clean my bathroom floor.
I’m going to work on a more positive attitude, starting with today. Which is a good day to start as this is mine and Randy’s 26th wedding anniversary. It feels good to continue digging living with the same person for so many years. He hasn’t complained of any new weird and upsetting smells emitting from me, so I guess I’m still okay.
Or his smell is failing too. He is older than me by a few years, so who knows?
Now, please excuse me, I’m going to use the last few productive hours of my extended holiday weekend to bleach the shit out of my bathroom floor. Damn.