Dear Life:
You suck. I sit here sipping nettle tea because I was advised it would keep me alive when I can’t eat much, which has been the case for several weeks now due to digestive distress. I suppose I should be grateful to you for the existence of nettle, but since the advice came from my daughter who is a recovering anorexic, I mostly want to punch you in the face.
I am lodging an official complaint. As you know, I was a teenage mother. This subjected me to negative societal judgment in the form of blatant insults to backhanded compliments about my age for YEARS. One of the ways I kept my dignity intact was with my Future Vanity Revenge Fantasy (say that three times fast.) So when a visiting “friend” pointedly praised my pregnant sister (married, in her late 20’s) for having children the “right” way, I didn’t spill my homemade soup that she was enjoying onto her lap, instead I pictured the future: a college visit with my grown children, and I, glowing in the sunshine, still young and fucking hot.
Alas, my children are currently both in college and I am decidedly un-hot…post-hot? “Not hot” just sounds weird. Anyway, while they were in high-school, I developed Cushing’s, which, as I’m sure you’re aware, strips the sufferer of any type of vanity, ego, or pride in appearance. Thus, my complaint.
I demand recompense immediately. Some examples would be the invention of gluten-free baklava, a chance encounter with Hugh Jackman wherin he declares his endless devotion to me, or perhaps the emergence of latent magical powers. Any or all of these would be sufficient.
Sincerely sticking up my middle finger,
Becca
Rise untethered.
Move with intention.
Be grand.
