Disposable Income and Mortality

Its impolite to talk about money. Likely due to the fact that it makes people with money uncomfortable (oh, the pearl clutching!), and people without money more stressed than they were 5 seconds prior. I promise I’ll try to keep from going on an anti-capitalist rant, but surely there has to be a better way then whatever the fuck is going on. Being that I can only speak as an expert on my own experience, please keep in mind I will only do such. I get that things are, in a general sense, pretty nice for me. THAT BEING SAID.

I’ve been shoehorned into the “millenial” demographic despite knowing how to use a rotary phone, and I’ve been a bit reluctant to admit it, almost like a bearded microbrewer scoffing at the term “hipster” on their vlog. I mean really, we’re all just consumers anyway, no point in taking offense to what kind of data you’ll be targeted to see. I almost envy the current doomed generation, y’all at least saw it coming.

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Ritual of the Habitual

Today is the day I end the hypocrisy of telling Crissy to write in her blog, then neglecting mine. For now, anyway. But this is about more than asserting my self publishing dominance over my attractive friends, I promise.

As is evidenced by the timestamp of my last entry, I am terrible at creating good habits. Literally the worst. I can keep to a weekday schedule at best, but free time is usually surrendered to my whims and what I can only hope isn’t festering mental illness. Some days are better than others, but I usually end up pondering whether my experiences are a symptom, or just what being a human adult is like. But it’s not the type of thing you can just ask someone. Too many intricacies of what makes a person, and god forbid you ask a narcissist what life is supposed to be like, you’ll just get a very boastful oral history of the first time they realized they had shit figured out. I’m incredibly wary of people who claim to have it all figured out.  We all have blind spots, and its better to be aware they exist, in my opinion.

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Mommy Nearest and the Blood Tribe

I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to look up my birth mother.

This seems to drive people INSANE.

My mother’s most recent obsession is her ancestry.com membership.  She added me as a ‘leaf’ or whatever bizarre buzzword for ‘human being’ that ancestry uses.  How anyone would ever be connected to me on a website knowing just my name and my adoptive parents is beyond me, it was a closed adoption.  I now fear that my mother will try to collect either blood or saliva from me while I am indisposed to satiate her sudden and intrinsic need to seek out blood tribes.

But I digress.

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Compulsions, Confidence, and Contradictions

I have a very love/hate relationship with writing.  Most writers do, I’d imagine.

Ugh.  Writers.  A word that describes a person who writes, yet somehow it has taken on a persona that has a fetish for tortoise shell frames.  I think we all know that faux half rims are the way to go for this racket.  But I suppose as long as one is bespectacled, they can wax poetic about their process at cocktail parties until the room clears and hors d’oeuvres can be crammed into ziplock baggies on the low.

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