Instagram Unofficial

OMG!!!!!! So this is interesting…

 

(But first, if you haven’t read the Elvis/Frankie posts you might need to for the following to make any sense.)

So, Frankie (or Middle Guy, as he shall be referred to from now on) has… wait, no, first let me tell you about my foray into Instagram…

So, if it weren’t for the fact that the Prettiest Boy Alive is on Facebook, I might not be either. I mean, my life is so effing boring. So, Facebook is the only social media I do. But I’d like to increase readership of this blog, so I thought I should get on Instagram. And because it was shortly after I had discovered Middle Guy, he was the first person I followed. I then slid into his DMs, attached a link to the post with "I wrote a blog post about you..." Pretty vanilla, right?

Then, after discovering the new guy and writing the post about him, I followed him and included a link to his post with the following: "I have a blog. You are the main subject of my latest post."

Before I signed off, I followed Newbie’s co-star, taking my following list to a grand total of three. 

Then for some reason I thought I should let Middle Guy know that he has been replaced, so once again into his DMs I went with a link to the Frankie post and this comment: "You have been replaced." Again, vanilla.

Then, a few days later, I went back and I noticed my Following list had dropped down to two. Now, my being new to Instagram, I thought I had done something wrong. So, I opened up my Following list… and Middle Guy wasn’t on there any longer!!!

Weird.

So, I searched for him again and this time I get this:

Weirder.

So, I call in help and asked E. what happens when she searches his name. And he came up for her.

Weirdest.

But this can (according to Google) mean only one thing – the fucker blocked me. I got the cyber version of a restraining order. WTF?

But why? I do not say anything bad about him in either of the posts in which he is featured. Or could it have something to do with the email I sent to his bookers (whilst plastered) telling him (because Drunk Me thought it was going to only him) that if he needed to cross off “Do A Fat Chick” from his Sexual To-Do list, I could help him with that?

But why block me? I showed only love for him. Did I come across as a crazed would-be stalker? I don’t think I did (feel free to tell me if I did). Could it be that he was so devastated I have a new crush, he couldn’t handle it?

But want to know something that only a sociopath with a death wish would enjoy? I kind of got a kick out of being blocked. Because, for one thing, he now knows who I am! And it kind of makes me a bad girl, right? Right?!!!

Frankie Has Left The Building

 

Newbies and those with bad memories might want to read this post (hereinafter referred to as the “First Crush Post”) and this post (hereinafter referred to as the “Second Crush Post”) for this post (hereinafter referred to as, um, “This Post”, I guess) to make any sense.

Yep, it has happened again: through the medium of television, I am once again crushing hard on a beautiful young man. Yes, the person who kicked Elvis/Austin out of my reveries has been kicked out by someone even hotter.

Oh! Now I remember something that has been bothering me. Not a single one of those (up to this point) 105 readers of the Second Crush Post reached out to ask who the new subject of my wet dreams was. And I didn’t realize I hadn’t included his name until a second look-see. I thought the accompanying pic might give away his identity, but then I realized the clue in the pic was quite abstruse. (I just learned that word today. I originally described the pic as obtuse but realized that that did not fit at all. So, I let Word do some Thesaurusing (a word I just now invented) on the word obtuse and we somehow ended up with abstruse. And it is kind of funny that this new-to-me word starts with “abs” because this new-to-me guy has abs for days.).

But, for the sake of my mental wellbeing, I am choosing to believe the pic wasn’t abstruse at all, and the reason none of the Original 105 reached out is because you all knew immediately who was now inflaming my loins, and it was not because none of you gave an eff who he was and couldn’t be arsed to ask me.

And because I did not reveal the identity of the hottie in the Second Crush Post, I am not going to reveal the identity of this new one. But, full disclosure, there is a not-at-all abstruse clue in this post that could lead you to No.2’s identity. And I am not going to get upset if none of you guess who this new one is because the picture above is the only clue to his identity and it is uber-abstruse. Or is it? I don’t know now, on a second viewing. Oy.

Anyway, this new one: suffice it to say he is smoking hot. And, like my two previous crushes, he is of the age where a Jocasta Complex is possible (but I’d rather it be Oedipal). But from what I remember of those myths, there would still be naughty parts touching, whomever initiated it.

I’d just been getting over Crush No.2 when this new guy popped up. The same windpipe/stomach issues came up immediately. I haven’t yet researched social media to see if he is active, but I am sure I won’t be able to hold out much longer. I think he’s single and I suspect he might be gay, but that could just be wishful thinking on my part (yes, I would rather have all my crushes be gay because then I know, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t land them (it’s the men’s prison sitch all over again)).

I don’t need this now. I am still slap-bang in the middle of my winter blues (but am glad it did not come a few weeks earlier because that would be slap-bang in both my winter blues AND my birthday blues).

I fucking wish I’d never fucking watched that fucking show in the first fucking place (Oh! One more than last time!).

Year in Review - 2025 Edition

So, in the two previous posts, I have made reference to how 2025 got off to rather a rough start (I even used the same pic twice!) but did not go into details. Let’s do that now. I am not going to include the aforementioned pic for a third time, but that rather colorful bruise resulted from my landing ass-first on a graveled part in the car park of where I live. I sat there, six minutes into 2025, pretty blotto, and had a feeling 2025 might be a bit of a shitshow. And, boy, was I ever right – at least for the first three months or so, that is. (I’d fallen trying to get a better view of the NYE fireworks. Not sure why because my first view was pretty much perfect.)

Technically, my 2025 got off to a bad start at around lunch time on NYE when I discovered my pick-up order from Wing Stop was wrong in every way it could possibly be – boneless wings instead of bone-in (which, let’s get this out of the way now, the very essence of a chicken wing are its bones. Without them, it is not a chicken wing, it is a chicken nugget and should always be described as such. Rant over); blue cheese dressing instead of ranch and – the very worst - carrot sticks instead of fries. Oh, the humanity.

I do wonder, however, if that way healthier lunch was part of my Higher Power’s way of trying to get me in shape. Because 2025 saw the closing of two of my favorite drinking and dining establishments (that makes five in the past three or four years). But a 24-hour liquor store did open up which I can get to without making a left turn, so suck on that, Higher Power.

So, yeah, the first three months of my 2025 also saw a Convicted Felon becoming president; a close family member diagnosed with Alzheimer’s; a crackhead running wild at the office; and someone attempting to break into my apartment in the middle of the night.

 

Those last two events were pretty effing scary but because of my being a sociopath with a death wish, they really didn't have that much effect on me.

But the rest of 2025 wasn’t too bad, apart from a $1,400 car bill (new tires, etc.) and $100 spent on hiring a handyman to do a few things around my apartment because I don’t have any male friends or butch female friends who’d do it for way cheaper; and the end of a 15-year friendship. 

Although that came about because of what was probably the highlight of my 2025: I became a radio star! Not really, but for a couple weeks in early October, the lucky listeners of the campus radio station were witness to my dulcet tones telling them about the upcoming Ren Faire. That was so much fun. I was given a short script and told to read it. I could not change the wording, and they did not want it done in any sort of accent except my own.

I sent the recording to a lot of friends. One of them replied with this:

 “Try this…Learning to speak passable faire Elizabethan is easy. It simply requires some practice of the pronunciation, and some memorization of common vocabulary.”

What the actual fuck? But coming from this particular person it really wasn’t much of a surprise; she has a very acidic tongue and when she insults or hurts someone, she blames it on their lack of a sense of humor. She reminds me of the “Bygones” guy in Ally McBeal. And she was oddly obsessed with my getting a boyfriend. When Sammy died, she wrote on Facebook “Well, at least you can get a boyfriend now.” One time, via text, she referenced an individual on 90 Day Fiancé who had a severe form of dwarfism and said, “If she can get a boyfriend, why can’t you?” This coming from someone who met her husband AT HER FRONT GATE. I’d been getting a little tired of her negative energy anyway, but this really was the last straw.

 

Health-wise, it was an interesting year. I started a new cocktail of pills that have helped me drop some OCD habits. For example, if I watch the very first episode of a TV show, I have to watch it until its bitter end, no matter if it has gotten crap or I have lost interest. Not now, though: I stopped cold turkey watching three TV shows, and mid-season too. That sort of behavior was unthinkable two years ago.

What else? I didn’t get a bird, despite desperately wanting to, because pretty much all my friends on Facebook warned me against it.

But I did dye my hair black, something I have wanted to do for a very long time. Interestingly, this led to my discovery that hair dye does not, in fact, grow out; rather, it fades out. I’d never noticed this when I was dying my hair just two or three shades lighter. I loved my hair black, it really brought out my inner goth chick (Elsinore) and when I am in the position to get it done professionally and regularly, I will.

And that is about it really for my 2025. I have reconnected with some of my college cohort, and some interesting things have come from that that I might include here. And on the fifth anniversary of this post, I intend to do a follow-up because it has proven to be quite interesting.

So, I am going to leave you with a quote I found that well, I could have written it, because, since Sammy has gone, completely sums up how I feel:

Elvis Has Left The Building

I think it might behoove you all to read (or re-read) this post for this new post to make sense.

All done? OK, so, yes, I have another actor enflaming my loins. But what makes it weird is that, like the Elvis/Austin sitch, this is another actor playing a famous musician. But in this case, it is the actor who is completely my type and the musician who isn’t.

This actor, oh eff, he is sofa king hot. There is not a thing I would change about him, except perhaps his marital status.

I discovered him last Friday. By Saturday I had re-watched the movie, screened the episode of a TV show he was in yonks ago, and sent a wildly inappropriate email to his bookers. In my defense, I was drunk and I am in love with him and if you don't want fans sending emails telling him to get in touch if he needs to cross off "Do an English chick" from his sexual to-do list then you shouldn't put a link on your website that allows drunk English chicks to send your bookers emails. Just sayin'. Although, also in my defense, I thought the emails were going to go to him or his personal assistant. It was only upon a second, less drunk, visit did I discover those emails go to his bookers. Oops.

I had been meaning to watch this particular film for a while now, and finally got around to it on Friday. And here is a mildly ironic temporal deal about this entire situation: he is going to be in Vegas next month, doing two shows and a fan meet-and-greet. Now those of you who know me well know that there is no way on earth I am going to go to either of those events (this post here explains why). Yeah, it’s Anderson Cooper (before he decided to have kids) all over again. I won’t ever watch that movie again and I lasted less than 24 hours in the several Facebook groups that feature him. It is just too painful, he is just too gorgeous and I can never have him.  And I am sure that all those fans who attend the shows and the meet-and-greet feel exactly the same way about him and I am sure there are some of them who have a chance with him, whereas I couldn’t get laid in a men’s prison. So, I will spare myself the physical and emotional pain and not go.

And I do mean both physical and emotional pain. When I first saw him, I was instantly both besotted and depressed. My depression manifests itself physically with a discomfort in my windpipe and abdomen. Right now, as I am writing this, it feels like a lead pipe is lodged down my throat and a bowling ball is resting in the pit of my stomach. It’s been that way since I showed the first signs of depression, at around the age of 14. But back then I had no idea an emotional disorder such as depression could produce physical ailments. I have since learned that it can.

But apart from his smoking good looks, I have no idea why he has reignited my libido. Even if he wasn’t married, I wouldn’t stand a chance with him. And I have stated many times I want a chauffeur, not a boyfriend. So why now and why him?

I fucking wish I’d never fucking watched that fucking movie.

Year in Review – 2024 Edition

It is almost February, so I guess I had better get this post done. But it will be different from previous YIR posts – and Sammy’s death is, of course, the cause of that. For whatever good or positive or fun things that happened in 2024, it will always be known as the year I lost my dear Sammy.

And I know I owe you an Idol post and my annual Feast of the Virgin check-in, but, yeah, I think we all know they are not happening.

Although I did come very close to not having to write that Virgin post: N. is a maintenance guy at the apartment complex I live in.  And he has a big crush on me. No, really. He sat in my apartment (I asked him to help me move something) and he straight out told me that he wants to date me. Now, on paper, he is my exact type – dark-haired and short (not Jewish or possessed of glasses, tho). And he is such a nice guy but, I don’t know, he just does nothing for me. Now I know some of you might be thinking that it is because he has a menial job. But nothing could be further from the truth (as long as he doesn’t work for the Convicted Felon that is our President, I really don’t care what he does for a living). So I let him down gently and told him I had a boyfriend named Jeremy. I don’t think I have told you about Jeremy: he is five years younger than me, lives with one roommate west of the Strip, works full-time and is going to school part-time. He job entails him to travel a lot which is why I sometimes looked after his cat (because Sammy was not on my lease). And because of his busy schedule we don’t get to see each other much but when we do, it is always at his place which is why none of the complex staff have seen him. What else? Oh, yeah – he is COMPLETELY FUCKING IMAGINARY.

Anyway, back to 2024: once again, I have to do a “I See Dead People” section but thankfully, it is a short list (just one): one of my cousins died (that is four of them now (out of 19)). Ironically enough, once again I found out about this death after the fact and from Facebook (her part of the family was estranged).

Speaking of Facebook, let me check it real quick to see if there were any positive highlights. Enjoy these stats while you wait:

In 2024, I got three pedicures, did not see any movies in a theater, and spent $194.30 at the Post Office.

Nope, if anything super positive happened in 2024, it did not make it to my Facebook page. But, on the other hand, apart from Sammy’s death, nothing too terrible happened. I wish I could say that about the start of 2025. You’ll have to wait for that YIR post, but boy, the start of the year has been a bit of a doozy for me. I will leave you with this photographic evidence:

 

Introducing The Cat-Shaped Hole Chronicles

First off, yes, I know this is the time I usually do my YIR post but 2024 was just a little difficult, what with Sammy dying, and the Cheeto-in-Chief not dying, and, well, 2025 was off to a very rough start (see above). So yes, the YIR post is forthcoming, I am just not sure when.

So, in the meantime, I want to introduce a new feature: posts about what I am doing or what I would like to do to fill the cat-shaped hole Sammy has left in my home, my life, my heart, everywhere.

The title of these posts comes from a friend’s comment on one of the many Facebook entries I made in the dark days immediately following Sammy’s death. I asked for opinions on a variety of things I would like to do or purchase or places I’d like to go (I still don’t remember why I picked Belgium, for fuck’s sake) and a ton of other lunatic ideas. On one of them a friend commented: “That won’t fill the cat-shaped hole.” That gave me all the feels. And ideas for this blog, so watch this space!

 

“Cat is fractious” no more

 

On our first visit to his vets, just about a week after we rescued each other, the intake tech wrote a note for Sammy’s vet: cat is fractious.

How little did I know then how true that was. The online thesaurus site lists tons of synonyms for fractious and I can easily say that Sammy exhibited most of them at some point: irritable; unmanageable; testy; scrappy; wild. I could go on, but you get the picture:

But no more, for my beautiful boy died in our sleep on March 15. Beware the Ides of March indeed.

I knew he was dying. He’d stopped eating and had lost a lot of weight. On the morning of his death, I found him settled on my collection of throw pillows in my bedroom (finding a quiet, safe space is a well-known behavior amongst cats when they know they are dying). And I knew that but stupidly, I picked him up and settled him on the couch in the living room. Comfortable, but not nearly as comfortable as those pillows. I am wracked with guilt about moving him. However, if it caused him to stay alive a little longer, then I am OK with it. Because it meant he was still alive when I got home.

I ate dinner quickly, changed into my jammies, picked him up, settled him in my lap and fell asleep on the couch. I can’t be sure of this, but I think, in the middle of the night, he awoke me with a loud meow just before he died. But that might be wishful thinking on my part.

When I awoke, I knew he was dead. But I let myself pretend it was just his normal habit of jumping up on me when I was asleep and settling in for a nap. So I talked to him like I would normally do when he wouldn’t move from me: “Sammy, get up, mummy needs to use the loo.” I went on in that vein for about five minutes, delaying the inevitable.

And, like after the workplace shooting, most of my posse of beautiful strong women reached out to me and helped me through it.

So you know that old chestnut of a question, “If you could have lunch with anyone, living or dead, who would it be?” Well, before Sammy, my answer was always William Shakespeare. After Sammy, it would be whoever could tell me of Sammy’s life before me: who got him declawed? How many siblings did he have? Did his mummy and daddy love each other or was it just a one-night stand? Did he ever do the deed before he got fixed? Did someone abandon him or did he run away, to be found by someone named Guido who took him to the shelter? (When he got to the shelter, he was initially named Roseannadanna, in keeping with the Saturday Night Live theme. That was changed to Rodin (one of my favorite artists). I named him Sammy after Sammy Davis Jr because he had only one eye (something else that I am sure added to his fractiousness!).)  

I’d also ask my lunch partner who abused that beautiful boy so much that he turned into a psychotic biting machine? Notice how I wrote I’d like to meet someone who could answer these questions, and not the person who did the abusing because I would kill that motherfucker in a slow and very painful way.

But, like my moving him from the pillows, perhaps on some level him getting abused was a good thing because it meant we ended up with each other. Because he was as fucked up in his head as I am in mine. Yeah, he might have gotten adopted on his good looks alone, but any normal, sane person would have returned him after one of his biting sessions. We were meant for each other.

But now he is gone and I am alone once more. It does hurt, but, because I am a sociopath, I am handling it so much better than I thought I would. I expected to try to fill the cat-shaped hole with a parrot. Or a tortoise. I pictured my grief causing me to shave off all my hair. Or dye it black. (One of those is for sure going to happen soon.)

But I am going on with my life with reminders of him everywhere. His picture is my profile pic for my work emails. Most of my passwords have some form of his name in them (there are lots of other deets in them so that is not giving away anything). He is my screensaver on all my devices. I say good morning to him. I tell him at night when it is time for bed. And about a week after his passing I had a dream that was so intense that I think it might have actually happened: He jumped up on my lap and we rubbed noses and said goodbye. In other dreams I feel him nibbling my toes or jumping up on my lap for a nap.

I could not give him the best life, but I think I gave him a good one.

RIP, love of my life.

I Second That Emotion

 

Today is the one-year anniversary of the shooting at my workplace.  I have attempted to write this post myriad times in the past year, but I could never find the words to express my emotions on that day and the year since.  Because, well, I don’t have any emotions about it.  

Why is that, I wonder? Because this one was close, the closest I have ever come to being involved in the gun violence that saturates America. The place where it happened is about 200 yards from my office. Some of our team, who were in lockdown in a different part of the building, heard the kill shot. The head of the department targeted by the psycho (white male, natch) shooter was at a meeting on the second floor of the building. We were in lockdown for about three hours, watching everything that was unfolding outside, mere feet away from us, on the TV in the office. And when we were finally released, it was by police armed with rifles. When we returned to the office, many doors bore signs of having been forced open by police. Later, reports came out and one student told of having to step over the bloodied body of his professor to get out of the building. All of that and I have not spilled one tear over it. What is wrong with me? 

I looked up some of the signs of narcissistic personality disorder, just in case that might be what ails me. I only had to read that two of the signs are a belief in specialness and superiority and I knew I don’t have it. The exact opposite, in fact. Like when I call my landline from the office to check if there are messages (there never are), I always hang up the phone with the phrase, ”Well, who would call you, you big fat ugly loser?” 

So maybe I am a sociopath? One of that disorder’s signs is a lack of empathy. That sure sounds like me.  But only as far as humans are concerned. Not with animals. During COVID, on our weekly video chats, our boss would report if anyone we knew had died of it. Not once did I feel anything. Then one week, he tells us that one of the police dogs that work on campus had died. I was a blubbering wreck for the rest of the day. I can’t watch movies if there is a chance the dog will die (to this day, despite it starring one of my future ex-husbands, I can’t bring myself to watch John Wick). And I was halfway through I Am Legend when I got a feeling something was going to happen to the dog, so I quit watching it.

And not only am I writing this on the one-year anniversary, I have just come from a memorial service held mere yards from the building it happened in. And not the reading of a poem, the blessing from a native American spiritual leader, the ringing of chimes, the cello and piano performance of a piece by Rachmaninoff (one of my favorite composers) or the singing of Lean on Me by a choir of students did anything for me. But it was when the person who survived the shooting stood up to speak and received a standing ovation that I realized if that did not move me, nothing will.

But one thing did move me: the outpouring of love and concern from my small but mighty group of friends. The first one to text me was JTV. A few others followed. L. sent a message on a group text and told everyone I was OK and not to worry about me. In one exchange someone called me "our girl". That really moved me. So maybe there is hope for me yet.

A Post about the Posts I owe you, my loyal reader(s)

I owe you posts. Some you are probably expecting (Nos.1, 2, and 8 in the list below); some, you are not (uh… the rest of them). I don’t really have a good pre-No.2 excuse as to why you have not gotten No.1 but it is because of No.2 that you have not gotten Nos.2 through 12 (No.13 hasn’t happened yet). I don’t know if it makes any sense but when those of you who do not know about No.2 read that post (whenever it gets published) you’ll realize why.

So, coming to this blog…  at some point:

1.   The December 6 shooting.

2.   Sammy died.

3.   The reasons behind a huge upswing in readers of this blog.

4.   My plan to quit drinking on Tuesday and Wednesday nights so I can watch TV and actually remember what I watched the next day.

5.   My plan to start incorporating the phrase “I fart in your general direction” more into my life, both verbally and in writing.

6.   My need for new excuses as to why I cannot travel to visit friends and family now that my main excuse (i.e., Sammy) is no longer viable.

7.   Why it was not Sammy keeping me from having a boyfriend (seriously – when I made the announcement on Facebook concerning No.2, someone remarked “Well, now at least you can get a boyfriend.” Oy vey.).

8.   American Idol.

9.   How I didn’t realize just how much No.2 had affected me until I started this blog post.

10.  How I really want to make a comment on Facebook about a former friend’s wife’s teeth but only because something he said to me one time would be on a post about the worst insults I have ever received but what is stopping me is my pledge to not post anything negative. Plus, it really isn’t nice to insult someone’s looks (which, as I am sure you can surmise, is a very big part of the Worst Insults I have Ever Received post, should I ever get around to writing it).

11.   A post about the worst insults I have ever received.

12.  How a meme about a bottle of champagne caused an existential crisis.

13.  The annual Feast of the Virgin post (technically, I could still get this one in on time because this year’s bacchanal is scheduled for June 8 but it is not looking good that I’ll get it in any time soon (see Ibid.)).

Year in Review - 2023 Edition

 

I am not sure why but 23 is my favorite number. I mean, why does anyone have a favorite number? I can understand having a favorite color (lime green, scarlet, black, black and white) or smell (fresh-cut grass on an English summer’s afternoon, Brute cologne, Obsession perfume) or song (I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues by Elton John, Jeff Buckley’s version of Hallelujah, Yellow by Coldplay) because there is something there, some visceral element, but a number is just a number.  My love of 23 probably stems from my love of William Shakespeare - he was likely born on April 23 and he probably died on April 23. Anyway, so, going into 2023 I had high hopes but in fact it turned out to be a pretty crappy year.

 

Where to begin? How about my car, and the three things that happened concerning it in a span of one week: Well, the first is kind of positive: I paid it off, almost one year early. Yes, on one hand that is very positive but, on the other, I managed that only because I am the Most Boring (and Bored) Person in the World: the money that I would have spent on doing things and going places, like people with lives do, was put towards the car loan.

 

Then, a day later, the battery died. Not a big deal, I have AAA but still.

 

Then, three days later, I had an accident, my first official car accident (by official I mean the first one my insurance company heard about). I’m not going to go into deets, it is still too painful. I was not physically harmed but it was still a major bummer.

 

And I have to do another “I See Dead People” section this year.

Steve killed himself about a week before his 70^th birthday. If you ever attended any type of philanthropic event in Denver or did any type of charity or volunteer work, chances are you met him. He was so giving of his time. And he was the only man ever to utter the following to me: “I love your ass”. After his death his Facebook page was overflowing with tributes. And this one hurt a lot because I hoped that we might end up together - we had been involved Biblically at some point; oh, and non-Biblically too – see here. And the fact that it was suicide was so heartbreaking. He had over 1.4k friends on Facebook, why didn’t he reach out to one of us? I am absolutely sure that there is not one of those 1.4k friends, including me, who would not have dropped whatever we were doing right then and there and gone to him if only he’d reached out.

Franklin’s death was natural, but untimely; he was younger than me, and much like Kim’s death, I did not find out about it until a few years had passed. And, in fact, I only found out about it because of Steve’s death. Because I had not been in contact with Steve for a while and it ended on a sour note (I sent him a short and bitter text – “I hate Facebook” after he had posted a picture of him and his girlfriend celebrating their one-year anniversary. In Las Vegas. At a restaurant less than two miles away from me) I decided to re-connect with some people I’d not heard from in a while and that was when I found out about Franklin. We probably hung out only a few times but oh he was such a character, the life of the party. And another one with over 1k friends and a Facebook page overflowing with tributes.

But I think it might be time to face the fact that this “I See Dead People” section might become a regular part of this post, because of my advanced age. Speaking of which, there was a period shortly after Christmas when I had pain in my left arm and jaw. It scared me so much that on my next trip to the dollar store I picked up some aspirin!

And, in other health news, it finally happened: I got the ‘rona. Three years and 10 months (or 1,405 days) after it first appeared in America, I got covid. I guess because I’ve gotten the vaccinations, I had an extremely mild case. Just like a minor cold, really and, except for the vomiting up blood part, it really wasn’t that bad.

.

And stuff around the apartment has just started falling apart, like my bed and my couch. And there seems to be an excessive amount of other household chores that need doing that I am not physically capable of doing and it makes me miss having male friends who I could call on to help. And the fact that housework and errands never fucking end. You get two things scratched off your To Do list and another five are added. How do people with families and more pets and bigger homes and real lives cope? It is just me, Sammy, a one-bedroom apartment and a non-existent social life and it is overwhelming. For once I do feel for people with lives. You must be exhausted all the time.

And the Prettiest Boy in the World moved. I mean, he was not close anyway, but this move was pretty dramatic and now he might as well live in, oh, I don’t know, Venice, let’s say, for how far out of reach he is now.

But 2023 was not all doom and gloom for me.

I had two visits from Denver-based friends this year: D., who has here for a work thing, and JTV who was here to attend a concert. Weirdly enough both their schedules and mine were such that we did the exact same thing: they came straight from the airport and met me at the office and we had lunch and hung out a bit until they had to leave. Of course, after the shooting there on December 6, I am not sure I’d ever want to ask anyone to visit me at work again.  (About the shooting: I think I will do a separate post about that at some point. I am still processing it, and this one is so much harder than October One because of location: the shooting site is about 200 yards from my office.)

And a little flirtation took part this year on a couple occasions with members of the contradictory gender. The first was a painter at work who was doing a job in the office. We chatted a little and on his last day he brought me a peach and jasmine flavored iced tea. I did not have the heart to tell him I hate iced tea, so I thanked him and took a couple sips while he was still there and dumped the rest when he left. I have seen him a few times on campus since then and he is always very friendly and gives me a ride if he is on his work cart.

Then there was the cable guy who, whilst fixing my cable in the middle of November, asked me if I enjoyed being single. What is weird, though, is that I think that some other man has asked me this and I think it might have been another cable guy. And I also think it was around the same time of year. So of course, my overactive but negative imagination immediately thinks that maybe all the single cable guys have entered some sort of hogging competition for the annual Christmas party. But even though we exchanged a few flirtatious texts (“You’re always welcome to text me outside of work as well” he replied to a question I had about internet speeds), he must have found someone hoggier to take to the Cox Christmas party.

So, yes, there were some high notes in 2023, but for the most part, this tea towel sums up my 2023 quite accurately and eloquently: