I Need a Minute 💔
to lick my wounds . . .
I hate those end-of-year spiels that list all the dastardly shit that rained down during any given year.
It’s early for a sorry listacle endeavor. Please forgive me for indulging my grinding grief of 2024.
This year has been damn-near as screwed as the one when my busted neck finally gave out and I became hobbled in a big way. That was 2013. I lived alone in the wilderness at the time and the best gift of my woodsy tenure was to be insulated from the madness of mankind during the covid pandemic, later on.
I had been deeply disappointed in humankind for years at that point.
But nothing . . . and I mean NOTHING . . . compares to the disappointment I feel in half my fellow Americans inflicting Trump on the world stage.
Incomprehensible . . . being sadly predictable at the same time.
The first five months of my 2024 were steeped in dog puke and splattered with diarrhea, so many late-night scrambles and scrubs and heart tweaks. Then both dogs died in May. Ironically, the last one on mother’s day.
After depending on canine companionship for a lifetime, I swore off living with pets . . . that long torturous stretch of dual dying blew me out.
