Just Don’t

Don’t what?

Don’t make major, life altering decisions when you’re on the cusp of big, fat, fucking surgery.

Just don’t.

Don’t quit the much loved, ultra convenient day gig in a fit of pique. It’s the nature of work to be not all fun and grins all the damn time. Duh! I gotta roll with it – be a responsible grown up and shit.

Don’t give your much loved relation a mondo rasher of shit for being inconveniently emotionally AWOL. I’m not the only cat having a rough time of it lately, ya know. I gotta grok that. We all have limits to our respective bandwidths. Even *GASP* yurs ever-so-very-truly! I’m not bereft on the support front here so, while I miss this person’s presence, I gotta understand and roll with it – be a grown up and shit.

Don’t impulsively invest in a hot tub OR an upstate Vermont cottage OR major structural changes to la casa (but I rilly want that way bigger window and balcony in mein Schlafzimmer!) or other BIG-time bucko expenses until AFTER Friday. Why? What's the all-fired rush? As much as these ideas appeal, and they SO do, there are some not-insignificant minuses that I need to consider alongside those pretty pluses – be a grown up.

Craniotomy Day is just two turns around the sun and moon away. I can hold off on all my flash notions

AND what are these throbbing inspirations, whims and desires about anyway? Control, agency or the happy illusion of it. My motherfucking skin suit (and contents) have been OUT of said control for WAY too bloody long. Symptoms of nasty ass tumorosity began, now that I think on it, as far back as September.

So yeah, I’m mega eager to feel like I’m captain of my ship once more. Wouldn’t you be?

Gotta be smart though. No cutting off noses to spite faces, no coldly, imperious twatness and NO willy-nilly spending of the always-in-short-supply spondulix.

I CAN do this!