I’m really torn between a Stifler-brand greeting, “F-ers, F-ers, F-ers,” and a soulful (Oprah/Adele) my-words-are-very-important greeting, “Hello from the other side…”

It’s been six years since my last confession, and seeing as there’s a pandemic and we’re all stuck in our houses until who-the-F-knows when, I figured I might as well do something that appears to be productive but isn’t actually productive with my time. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to blog (jazz hands, YAaaay).

Notables since my last post:

I for-real quit smoking, and I’m going to live FOREVER. Unfortunately, I also quit writing, because it makes me want to smoke—wha, wha, wha. I wish I had some inspirational anecdote about taking my words back from nicotine, but, mother F-er, they’re hiding in terror. Let this be a lesson to anyone thinking about smoking cigarettes or crack or heroin. You’ll eventually have to quit everything you enjoyed as a smoker. It begs the question: why did I quit smoking?

My writing process was established over many, many years of smoking cigarettes and scribbling words in spiral notebooks. I’m not saying the quality of the writing in those notebooks was good—it was shitty garbage—but I produced a lot of it. I’m lucky now, if I produce a well-written paragraph in 12 hours—NOT FUNNY.

A borderline offensive thought is nagging me while I write this. (Apologies, if it gets too graphic.) My colon doesn’t work like it used to either, and I’m not blaming that on quitting smoking. (Full disclosure: I blame everything on quitting smoking.) My brain’s at least as constipated as my ass. And the more I think about it—the comparison is remarkably accurate. My brain pushes and grunts for hours to produce a few lousy syllables. So, maybe I’m just getting old. My aging female brain is chronically constipated like my aging female intestines. Do they make laxatives for your brain?

What have I been up to besides not writing, not pooping, and not smoking?

I manage to not do a lot of things—make sufficient progress (according to my standards) on my master’s degree in teaching is the first thing that comes to mind, but I’ll save that rant for another day. Since the declaration of pandemic, I created most of the cast of Gilmore Girls in Sims 4, I stayed up until 4 a.m. playing Grand Theft Auto with my daughters, I discovered Instagram TV is a thing, I attended staff meetings in my PJs, I temporarily reduced my newspaper habit to an every-other-day affair, I mastered social distancing, and I made a permanent record of my struggles with writing, addiction and chronic constipation.

Until next time, clean hands, clean surfaces, essential trips ONLY, and don’t lick anything!

Things I googled
while writing this post

• Hello (suggestion: Hello Again Lyrics): This is a Neil Diamond Song that I sang to the tune of Adele’s “Hello,“ until I realized this is a Neil Diamond song.
• How do you spell Debbie Downer noise: I hear mrah, mrah, mrah, but it doesn’t look like that in my brain.
• Rachel Dratch: Because I googled Debbie Downer noise. Google also suggested Rachel Maddow (rhymes with cow). I almost checked her Twitter, but I stopped myself in an effort to keep calm during house arrest.
• Neural colonic: Just curious. It turns out there’s lots of research on the relationship between the nervous system and colon function.
• Mental constipation: A problem for nervous poopers.
• Emotional constipation: Nervous poopers, again.
• Brain constipation: I-only-poop-at-home women should really talk to their doctors (note to self).