To say that 2021 was one Hell of a year, is either an absurdly honeyed toad OR a tragic misunderstanding of Hell.
Let’s begin with last January, the first month of this liposuction clinic dumpster fire.
In one of a handful of political rants, I raged on the Out-of-Control Orange Id and his blindingly moronic renfields’s coup attempt. I also had one of my last seizures. Remember those?
I also wrote myself a list of ways I could, possibly, pull my mood out of this smelly swamp.
In February, the hardest month of any year, I kvetched but attempted to offset that with cat memes.
And there were dreams.
I came home in April with a rock solid understanding of what to do before I ever need another sub acute rehab facility—visit the joint, interview staff on all levels and NEVER believe the ‘star’ratings.
In May I thought about a few women I used to work with. which led me to, later, making friend definitions and categories.
June 19th. Between my OR addiction and COVID, I hadn’t seen him in over a year. Now it was too late—funerals are for the living.
July brought important questions such as, ‘do Chiclets still exist?’ I also waxed far less than poetically about my spazoid leanings, threw up my hands and posted pics
In August I absolutely had to sort out the very important differences between robots, androids and cyborgs. Hey, this shit’s important!
coworker/‘friends’and more pics. Plus, my late arrival to the Vermeer Fan Club.
I went out for groceries in October and was stunned by a blue moon.
I also discovered the proper way to decorate a car for the holidays.
November, yes, just last month, brought yet another neurosurgery and my attempt to ease staff-to-deafie communication. It didn’t always go as planned or hoped.
This month, December, I looked at Latin phrases (fascinating shit!), and had some important questions about food.
Now we’re at the end of the year. I’ll refrain from further commentary and well wishes lest I jinx the motherfucker. Cheers!