Of course, I’d wake from a dream where I died on my birthday. On my birthday. This is so on-brand I would expect nothing less from my subconscious. Keep up the good work, kiddo. I would tell you how it feels to be forty-five, but my laptop decided to book a one-way ticket to Hades and I’m left with my phone and three boxes of Puffs Plus Deluxe. Sending my laptop postcards from L.A. with the words: I really wish you were here, motherfucker.
My saving grace in the great black comedy that is my waking life is YOU. Yes, I’m allergic to people. Yes, I’m a walking igloo, but from a distance I heart all of you. You motherfuckers are the gift that keeps on giving. Thank you for reading my stories to the end. Thank you for writing really nice stuff when a bucket of feces always seems to find its way to my inbox. Thank you for featuring my work when I’m not one of the famous people in this joint. Or even the room. Thank you for hiring me because my cat likes the gourmet Fancy Feast and that shit is expensive. Let’s hope I have a functioning laptop by the time I turn 46.
So, thank you, dear reader, for showing up and making my day a little less blue.