I have the best spammers

I’m high. Feeling slightly shitty. Not fully sure why. Also, two glasses of wine in, so it might be the alcohol talking.

I feel like my husband doesn’t really like talking to me. I feel like he doesn’t really like being with me. I know he loves me, but it’s like the Maya Angelou quote: “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

That’s just me wallowing and pining in my insecurities. I know he loves me. I know our life is good. Isn’t that the secret to life? “To live a good life and know it.”

I Tweeted that earlier tonight. I was stoned, and pooping, and enjoying the poop, and thinking about how my girls love poop, and poop jokes, and the poop word in general, and how Big A takes long poops like my dad, and how Little A takes super-quick poops like my one of my girlfriends, and how I love when the poop just slides right out, and how much I cherish my stoned evening poop, and having that precious, sacred time to myself… Time… the theme I return to most, both stoned and sober.

I was stoned. So stoned. Post-poop, I finished a half glass of wine and took the girls for a walk and attempted to approach a father and daughter who were lounging in their backyard trampoline as the kids and I were scooting down the road. I asked about the child’s age (2 1/2). I said my girls were a bit older (4 and 6). I noted how nice it was to see other families in the neighborhood. I didn’t give my name, or the names of my kids, or even allude to the fact that we were new to the neighborhood, and instead, I continued to ask weird questions about their dog, despite the fact that they clearly didn’t want to be bothered. Anyway, it felt super awkward. I felt super awkward.

We walked home. I had another glass of wine. The kids slept late. After 10:00, and it’s 10:31 now.

Time is interesting. We all feel like we can beat it. As if we’ll have more.

Am I obsessed with Death in the same way my grandfather was? The same way my father is?

I once convinced myself I had AIDS because my birth control pills gave me chronic yeast infections, and the HIV warning was written on every box of Monostat. The crippling fear of my own mortality lasted about two years. I was 19 and engaged to a man I despised, and I think I gave myself a terminal disease in resignation, my own twisted way of coping with a life in which he was as good as it would get.

I was so insecure. I still am. Aren’t we all?

But he was funny, the ex. He would laugh at me and say, “You play doctor and patient with yourself in the span of five minutes. You diagnose yourself with AIDS and then spend an hour crying about it.” (Which is true. I would cry for hours on end).

“And you know the most fucked up part,” he would ask, rhetorically. “If you have AIDS, I HAVE AIDS! And you don’t even care.” (Also true. I gave not a single fuck).

I’m self-centered. I’m arrogant. I can be a shitty person.

I sometimes don’t like myself. I guess it’s in those times that I need to work harder at liking myself (doing things like working out, or working harder at work, or spending more quality time with my kids, or getting love from my husband).

I haven’t been working out at all. I ate Enrique’s entire bag of Cheddar Cheese Bugles on Monday, in one 10-minute sitting. (We’re also on deadline, which is how I justified it). I finished his tub of Pizza Pringles over the course of Tuesday and today, and then started on a 2 oz. bag of $5 Moon Cheese.

I am feeling good about work, but I also feel like Enrique has done the lion’s share of the lifting, which makes me feel guilty, because I’m the boss, and I should set the precedent for our work ethic, but then I also feel like I set the vision, and he nails the execution, and so maybe we’re just a good team, and if there was a way to get more money for myself, I’d do everything I could to get more money for him, too. (Or maybe that’s also how I justify it.)

I love spending time with my kids. I wish I could spend more time with them. I wish I could just pack up and move to paradise like Gwyneth Paltrow, who’s now back on the East Coast. (Gwyneth is not my high school nemesis, but I’ve blogged about her before because she’s this insufferable woman with the perfect life, who packed up everything and moved to Hawaii with her husband and two daughters, and while I desperately want to hate her, I can’t. She lives a good life and knows it.)

My life is good. I know it. I don’t even know why I’m writing all of this right now. Is it to convince myself? It’s 10:49 now. Almost an hour later, and what have I even said? Has this been completely incoherent?

I hope not. I don’t feel very drunk or stoned, but I feel shitty. If nothing else, maybe it’s worth sharing that. We all feel shitty sometimes. And yet a good shit can be so therapeutic. I’m trying to tie this back to my stoned poop earlier. Not sure if it’s working…

I’m not even mad at Mr. D. He’s been killing it at work, at life. He managed the entire legal and financial process of buying our dream home (though he used most of my money), and then he moved almost all of the furniture himself. He worked the entire past weekend (save for a few hours on Saturday night when he grilled steaks for my best friends), and then he killed an important presentation with his CEO yesterday.

We haven’t had much sex lately. Maybe I’d be less emotional if I was getting the D. I’m sure I would. Sex is such a primal thing. It’s the real meaning of life. To procreate.

“Tautology,” as Enrique once explained. When the answer to the question is the question itself. Life is the meaning of life.

Maybe that’s why all mothers are witches. The magic and power of the life force. Of creating it.

Maybe that’s the magic and power of love. That it doesn’t just create life; it sustains it.

Now it’s 11:08. Normally my bed time would have been eight minutes ago, but my sleep has been shitty lately. I was up til 1am last night playing Candy Crush like it was 2011.

Maybe I’m in a time warp. I had a weird incident tonight with an empty water bottle in a bathroom.

Anyway… this is long and rambling. If you stayed with me, thank you. If not, I don’t blame you. I drift in and out myself.

Oh, before I go, I’ll end this with a note about my spammers. I have 9,904 comments on my blog. They’re all probably from a weird robot machine, but they’re also all really nice and awkwardly phrased. It’s kinda sweet, even if it is just a bunch of Russians infiltrating my dwindling bank account. At least they’re complementing me in the process.

For instance, “Business Service” wrote, “Hi there, I found your site by way of Google while looking for a related matter, your site got up here, it seems to be great. I have bookmarked it in my google bookmarks.”

A different “Business Service” from a different email account wrote, “Fantastic beat ! I wish to apprentice while you amend your site, how could I subscribe for a blog site? The account helped me a acceptable deal. I had been a little bit acquainted of this your broadcast provided bright clear concept.”

They’re all like this. Incoherent, grammatically incorrect, flattering.

I took a photo of one, but my pictures don’t seem to upload anymore. I wonder if this site will crash. I wish I had the Time and knowledge to fix this, but I probably won’t. I know Mr. D, who works in technology, won’t bother to help. Besides, you can’t expect someone else to rub your metaphoric clit.

Who knows. Maybe someone is actively trying to destroy my blog, or hack into some account of mine. Or maybe this is just a sweet, mildly annoying sign from the universe, a glimmer of possibility that I could have fans. Nine thousand comments would be cool. Then again, so many more people read my 9-5 project, so why should I care about the site when I have bigger work to do?

My only real fans are Spiderman and Aishah. (Does she even read me, still?).

Mr. D loves me, but he only reads this to support me. Not because he’s into it. Not because he’s into me.

Or maybe that’s just how I feel right now. Maybe I’m insecure. Maybe it’s 11:24 and time to go to bed.

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