Sometimes I wonder who the hell these people are competing with?
To be better than everyone else is not the point.
To be the best version of you…now that sounds more authentic.



Call me what you want, bestow me with any label you choose. Agnostic. Heathen. Pagan. Religiously misguided. New-age hippy. Sun-worshipper. It’s cool, really. Most times I answer with agnostic when people ask me and most times it’s the hyper-devout that bother to ask.



“Is that like Christian?”......<sigh>



I’m married to a militant atheist and I have absolutely no problem with this. And just because my idea of god is extremely obscure and more convoluted than the terms and conditions of your mortgage agreement, doesn’t make it less of worthy adversary in the age-old realm of whether a higher power exists or not. Moth never bashes my beliefs, he also doesn’t go around the neighbourhood telling hapless kids, that Jesus to him is just as plausible as zombies…hence Zombie Jesus, thus destroying their (ingrained/ predetermined) carefully constructed religious beliefs.  Unfortunately, I can’t say that when the situation is reversed that the same holds true. The high and mighty will smell you from a mile away. And given half the chance, will make any atheist wish he believed in a merciful god that would strike him down on the spot, when faced with religious lectures filled with dogma.



What you believe in is undoubtedly up to your own discretion, but an orange is an orange is an orange. This is where science comes along. If you have a belief/theory for it to be true you have to go through due process and prove it to be so... substantiated by evidence. Once achieved, your theory is acknowledged to be true unless disproven. Sounds reasonable to me. There’s been increased hype about the Large Hydron Collider and with it, it’s new discovery of the Higgs boson or the God Particle, but how many people really understand this latest discovery paving the way to understanding the universe before they totally discredit it?



Fuck me, a layman usually doesn’t encounter theorised particle physics in everyday conversation but it doesn’t harm anyone to educate themselves. Please allow my most likely poor attempt to do so. The Higgs boson is the energy field that gives all the other particles a mass. It was identified during experiments conducted by CERN (Da Vinci code much?) simulating the same environment that occurred during the Big Bang thus going some ways into explaining why gravity exists and supposedly sketching a clearer picture regarding the origins of the universe. What does this mean for religion? Are the gatekeepers of the spiritual world up in arms? I don’t know…most likely?

CONGRATULATIONS. YOU ARE THE ONE BILLIONTH PERSON TO MAKE A “LARGE HARD-ON COLLIDER” JOKE ON TWITTER. YOU HAVE WON AN ALL ACCESS PASS TO SEVERAL ALTERNATE PLANES OF PERCEPTION. I AM UTAPU, GATEKEEPER OF THE HIDDEN REALMS. I BID YOU WELCOME.
(from my MOST fave site..click here)


Do I care? Not sufficiently, no.



When people use religion (race or even class for that matter) as yard stick to determine and most often times prove their superiority over someone else, I’m not available to participate.  I doubt any deity works on a podium system, so why should we assume that as believers and non-believers that that’s the way we should operate on this physical plane. When people are so starkly categorised, we promote the subjugation of individuals, attaching an unwarranted and counterfeit value to them. When this happens; life becomes nothing more than a ledger of profit and loss…people become nothing more than pluses and minuses on some moral balance sheet. And at the end of the day, these theistic accountants become as morally bankrupt as those supposed sinners.

Contrary to popular belief, this is not a competition. Believe in whatever you goddamn want. If you think that there is one clear winner at the end of this Race of Faiths...I fear we may have missed the point. For all we know, we are just talking monkeys, on an organic spaceship hurtling throughout space...which is just as plausible as any theocratic belief system.

Sound logic is...SOUND.
Yes…yes, I know. This post is not up for public consumption in the allotted time previously agreed to. What can I say….I’m a creature of bad habit and some behavioural patterns are set in stone. If you are salaciously wondering about how I’ve been so vehemently denied my most basic human right due to obvious consequence, I’m afraid it’s rather disappointing.


Think what you want. I’m not going to question the status quo….or the inaction of a certain individual.

My post (now late),  my ass (high as a kite) and his calculated silence. We each possess a unique cache of artillery, the important thing is to identify your not-so-secret weapon, use it, abuse it and hope to Jah that it remains as useful as the first time you discovered it. Having a bergina and being recognisably koot helps....A LOT and has garunteed my safe, smoky passage up until now. It's a deadly combo, and I'd say the two characteristics are interchangable...but they really aren't. Bergina always stands victorious.


 Bambi eyes and quarky can only get you that far, though. The rest is all about…

Source unkown
C-harisma

U-niqueness

N-erve…and

T-alent



Lipstick on a pig in other words, which brings me neatly to my next point. I suppose there are very few categories a twenty something girl can claim virginity in, mine would be tattoos. Rather late than never, I’ve always been keen on the idea of having myself inked. The only reason it took this long to get it done was figuring out what I wanted permanently etched on my skin. Besides the obvious cosmetic implications, getting a tattoo is quite an investment. 



There’s money. Good tattoos aren’t cheap, and cheap tattoos aren’t good. 
There’s time. Rounded up it took almost five hours to finish my piece.
And most importantly finding a skilled artist in a good studio. This is so key. Plus I like their mission statement.

No Picking. No Scratching. No Bitching.
No Ego. No Bullshit. Just Passion.



When sitting braless in the middle of winter for five hours, the setting is crucial. Nipple stand ruins lives (depending on your profession- it might enhance lives), and so the heater and cellophane wrapped pillow was most welcome.  Bestie bumz in tow, cupcakes, smoke breaks and hi-fucking-larious renditions of the CaptainPlanet theme song got me through, relatively unscathed. Going under the needle is totally manageable, it’s not the most pleasant- but it’s totally worth it. The worst thing is being plastic wrapped like a forlorn tuna sandwich for the following two days…and the surgical tape….(oooohhhhh, the humanity)...the tape kills me and was without a doubt the most painfull thing about this whole experience.


It’s true what they say, it’s addictive. And if you really are a come as you are type of person, body art could count as one of the most honest forms of self-expression. I was banned from even writing on my hand as a kid. I grew up in a concentration camp. Really. A concentration camp on the Cape Flats. I remember asking my old man what he thought about tattoos… eish, that was the furthest thing from a fairy-tale. My dad’s brother came home from school one day with an off kilter heart tattooed on his forearm done with a school compass and stained with battery acid. My granddad conscientiously took a scissor to my uncle’s arm (who was thirteen at the time), scraped that heart until it was no more and then, for some reason spread a thick layer of condensed milk onto the open wound. Not sure how the condensed milk was meant to help, but that horrific image has been imprinted in my brain ever since. Bitter sweet indeed.

Is mutilating a child really neccessary to prove your disdain for something? Really? Why can't people just be free to mutilate /modify/accentuate/ express what ever they like,as they damn well please? Tatoos throughout the ages have historically held contrasting significance. From the old world, differentiating the high born from the slaves, to the old-skool world where only sailors, prostitues and criminals were bestowed with colourful epidermis. I see walking canvases. Not delinquents. 

Present day, tattoos are more mainstream and the only thing that poses as a limitation are your brainwaves. Some people are prophets of doom preaching gravity and old age.  I'll probably look the same as any sixty year old, just colourful and did I mention badass. Since when is this the Moral Olympics? I must confess, I feel a slight obsession growing.

Source unknown


If I had to take 15 million steps back (give or take a few), I’d find myself in the exact same place, where I found him. On the edge of a continent, on a street that is Long, in a club now closed and at a party that would make even the likes of Chuck Palahniuk proud, we stood contently beside each other as strangers…or so we thought.

I know now that I knew him long before that fateful night (4 am, Rum Diary drunk in a club). Long ago, under a different set of stars, on a different street, as someone not too unfamiliar from who I am now. We knew each other.

63 million breathes have ushered us to this point. SIXTY-FREE-MEEEEEEERRRRRION…..sixty fucking three million moments…


Moments of jumping off bridges, sleeping under stars, rolling down hills in giant plastic zorbs that would make any hamster jizz their pants. Moments of bribing caretakers in coastal dorpies to feed some godforsaken octopus that Moth remembers from a family holiday long ago. Of sleeping under the night sky in summer, off getting kicked off farms and invading others. Moments of self-inflicted madness, getting lost in the height of summer in apple country with no liquid or music in sight or sound…after an insane trance party…which I take full responsibility for. Ahem! Moments, dressed as memories…decorate the halls of my mind. Suit and tie, ceremony and pomp…when underneath they reveal the true identity of us. Two (now) barefoot kids hurtling towards each other at the speed of light.

So it’s been six years. Pats self on back. We’ve come a long way him and I, from getting caught by the poh-lice trying to catch a free show (they were actually nice and just doing their job looking for some runaway kid, they even told us where they wouldn’t likely find us…so we went there instead)…. to having a place of our own place. Our first place was so empty when we moved in that we’d create multifunctional zones. Amongst them we had a designated MMA/ capoeira area and a breakdancing zone, this was partly due to a bout of insomnia I was having and CTV (love me some community TV). Now, we have a small Nation and a few surviving plants. We pay our TV licence. We are anti-procreation, he proports to be a militant atheist but every month I’m sure this is challenged when he’s as grateful as fuck. So he’s gotta be praying to someone.


I’m always grateful… and I will pray to anybody/thing to secure the integrity of my bergina…and sanity. I also believe in science, so either way. I don’t pretend to be on the forefront of what makes us work (however, I feel strongly that the no-kids-thing helps), what I do know is that it does and that he has my heart. And in the quiet of the night, when darkness asserts its dominion over us all, I lie awake restless and listen to his heart beating.


Two and a half BILLION times over, each resounding thud provides mortal assurance to the inevitability of the next few billion heartbeats to follow. He is my heart and keeps me safe in the warmth of his. Because at the end of the day all we need is somebody to love….smoke bongs with…and cuddle.

So my lovable compadre, the awesome that is Moth has set me to task yet again. He has inadvertently pit two of my most beloved things against each other, namely my deeply rooted affection for fine green herb and, well… him. Okay, at least in my realm of thought this is how the following challenge is laid before me.

Challenge:

If I do not post something new on this here “revered” blog….within two days, before a very particular time of eighteen hundred hours- forty five minutes; I, Charlie Sunshine will hereby be subject to the most inhumane, slendiferously soul annihilating penalty of having my ganja privileges suspended until said new post is available for public consumption.


Personally, I think it’s a bit harsh. Secretly, I tip my imaginary hat and smile at this smarty pantsance spouse of mine. I see what you did there. So, here’s to trying my best. Yes, my inconsistent ass sometimes needs some firm guidance (ironically mentioned in previous posts) or how he terms it as “spirited encouragement”, but this, by no means imaginable can be touted as my support for the prohibition of cannabis.


Although I may not be deemed the most vocal proponent for cannabis, I am a proponent none the less. I intellectually understand all the benefits in both spheres of health and economics and I spiritually recognize the positive effects it has on my state of being.



Besides, I hate losing bets and I hate anything that could remotely be construed as punishment.  It came to me one night when I was obscurely thinking of star signs (I am a Gemini, who woulda thunk …) and I realised that although my attention span is as intermittent as my internet connection at work  (a trait any not-so proud Gemini can confirm), during those few seconds of undivided attention my brain has the (alleged) capacity to expend an insane amount of energy concentrating on the subject. That’s my version, nay, justification for being so scattered and inconsistent. And, that my friend, sounds like SOUND logic. My plan is to try and harness this fleeting ability and win the day, save the princess and return the ring to mount Doom, bong intact.


I pledge allegiance to my bong, to being consistent and to incorporating flossing as part of my daily dental regimen (might as well while I’m at it). Disappointment is not an emotion I’d like to bestow on him anyway, more than that I welcome the notion of Rising to the Challenge and Instilling Pride. Besides we recently procured a now cherished percolator that has obliterated the both of us and sent us lovingly off to sleep for the past few days.


 I’m surprisingly mute when it comes to discussing the societal and political aspects surrounding boom, it’s like discussing religion…or (trance) music. Severely personal. Too often I see people becoming completely absorbed in a “one hit wonder topic”, when its aaaaaalllllllll they talk about. I’m sure you’ve had an incident when someone excitedly explains the Law of Attraction to you over, and over, and over again.

Yes, I get it.…


Yes……


Yes, I know this.


The same concept applies to friends who incessantly post pictures of their new born on the book of faces. 



Yes, I know you have a baby…


Yes, I recognise that your baby looks fetching in a variety of outfits, in a spectrum of colours. It is acknowledged…


Yes, I am sure I want to delete you from facebook…


Delete.

Yoh, but I do love me some ganja…and I totally love me some happy go-lucky Moth. And if I can instigate a move where I have the best of both worlds, then why not? I’m coloured after all, I’m genetically programmed to mission. Organise, organise. Besides, there is potentially more content for me to inflict on you. No pressure.
So, there are a few things I don’t believe in:

1.      Diamonds

2.      Family

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t doubt their existence, but I sure as hell don’t promote their ideals. In my mind’s eye, they leave behind them nothing but a path of false ideals of value, pain, suffering, guilt and a clear distinction between those who “ have” and those who “have not”. Now I’m not suggesting you adopt any of the above philosophies as your own, but I think it necessary for me to bring them to light, set the foundations and impart (my) frame of reference in order for you to understand the gravity and significance of my latest ramblings….as stated below.

 An open (and most likely undelivered ) letter to my Momaschnu…


MOMMY!!!!!!!

Now that I’ve got  your attention, Ol’ Lady, I’d like to set the record straight.


I f*cking, totally, TOTALLY love you! (#mftotes). I’m glad that I share your genetic make-up (and predispositions for a vast array of medical conditions- not forgetting insanity) and that you’re MY mommy.  I know I’m not the easiest pigeon of your pair- but thank you.

 Thank you for teaching me how to worship the sun, to blow bubbles and making me understand that my two legs can carry me anywhere. Thank you for making me experience the bone chilling fear that runs rampant within in me, whenever you drive. No motor vehicle will have the satisfaction of me driving it.


Thank you for saying “NO” to Spice Girls shoes and blessing me with the metabolism of a tweaked-out gerbil. So even though, I’ve inherited your goldfish memory/ attention span and your indulgent flair for panic….I still want to impart my gratitude, because I must declare that these “inadequacies” are best suited to the likes of us.


Thank you for instilling in me a hyper-exaggerated hatred of cellulite and for teaching me how to appreciate an ice cold beer and how never to drink rum on a boat. For cheering me up with Naked Mexican’s when I’m sad. And although, Darth Vader shows more affection to his offspring than you could ever possibly muster up- I still totally love you. Besides, I know hugs would be much too awkward for the both of us. Thank you for teaching me to always be honest- even when honesty hurts.


And even though, you’d never say, you are the one who encourages the spirit of adventure that burns bright inside of me. Thank you for teaching me how to love and respect  animals and for nurturing a deep fanaticism for books and reading…..even though you are saddled with the by-product years on. Narrating Button Soup is not a useless ability…even now when I don’t need to hear it before I go sleep!


So here’s a secret… during those many self- imposed orphan years…I missed you the most. I’m not apologizing for the tears shed for and about me, but I love you and want you to know that I forgive you for those reciprocated.


I have yet to master your weapon of mass destruction…”le silent treatment”…because really- you couldn’t shut me up for a second even if you tried…so there are still so many things I have yet to learn from you. So don’t fret Ol’ Lady, you and me have many more adventures ahead!!!


I’d also like this to serve as an official and very public apology for an incident that occurred circa 1991. It regards a certain school project…on budgies. More especially the incident relates to photocopied pictures of budgies which you so lovingly coloured in…on my behalf…without my consent. I’m sorry I had a cadenza of such epic proportions, and yes- to this day it’s still clearly a sore point…more than a decade on…. But you don’t just colour someone else’s budgies in without asking first…. #ffs…who does that?


<PAUSE>

Again, I’m sorry. And yes, the Encyclopaedia Britannica and the local library’s photocopy machine was the only way you could incorporate some visual imagery in a school project back in the day. That said, I do remember getting a good grade for that project- no gold star mind you…but at least it helps mend the wound and ease my ridiculous anguish.


I love you, Momaschnu- and I’m giving you the biggest telepathic hug in the omniverse (because that at least has to count for something…even if I have to live through an imaginary awkward moment).



All my love,

You perfectly imperfect daughter


P.S   It’s not budgies…it budgerigars… “Besides, you’re saying it wrong. It’s LeviOsa, not LeviosAR!”
It all shits and giggles, until someone giggles and shits themselves.

My body, your body, everybody’s body is one amazing machine. Yes, indeedy. And although I was the type of kid that would rather let a splinter the size of a piece of braai- wood assimilate naturally into my body than have one of my parents attempt to take out the sucker with a needle….- I am not immune to the seduction and account –draining lure of all the glorious pseudo-medical crap that the general health care industry tries to  peddle onto my all too-suspecting ass.

Like every non-German engineered machine, your body needs a little bit of help and perfunctory maintenance from time to time. Sometimes a stern lecture about bad habits, over indulgence and the importance maintaining a decent level of eyesight is necessary….well, for me at least. I have a penchant for rubbing my eyes and not wearing my spec-TACK-ulars. So much so, that one godforsaken day a few years back I gave myself a self-fulfilling case of conjunctivitis. #FML.

If you are giggling quietly to yourself…..what a sick, twisted person you are…just my kinda people- I say. But if you’re really my kinda people- you’ll allow me to weave a fantastical narrative and set the stage for this Machiavellian tale.    

Deep South in the trenches of conservative suburban hell, the awesome that is Moth escorted me in all my myopic glory to the closest chemist. Anti-inflammatory eye-drops aside…. my blurry gaze settled upon…..wait for it….an eye-patch!!!! KISMET….I shit you not. Somebody, somewhere was trying to tell me something. I gave Moth one of those mischievous looks (with a heavy misdirected under-current of how this might turn into something kinky) and like a Flake….all resistance crumbled.

He sighs, “Fine….take it.”
 

You don’t have to ask me twice.

He is supportive that one. Much in the same vein as Voltaire’s credo of “I do not agree with what you have to say, but I’ll defend to the death you right to say it” Moth’s management style (laissez faire- of course) with me has always been….”I don’t agree with your naughty impulses and obstreperous (coloured pronunciation- opstropolis) behaviour, but I will facilitate the process of you catching on kak.”  And rightly so. Damn straight!

And because he's such a fucking nice guy, he takes me to this treasure trove of a babi shop (corner store). Basically Cape Town's Indian version of Willy Wonka.....and I, the namesake in this glorious tale....the presiding Charlie to this VERY rinkydink Chocolate Factory. Glass display boxes, stacked like an imposing wall of tetris filled with fire balls, coconut puffs, sour rope, musky chalk sweets that are reminiscent of rat poison....as well as all the racialistic candy you could possibly comprehend.

Namaste!
For the sake of accuracy...I do have to state the facts. Yes....the Indian Willy Wonka did look more like a tan version of Mr. Burns from the Simpson's. And yes, if you gathered that I was sporting a powder pink eye-patch the minute I layed my hands on it...and dutifully proceeded to parade myself from the chemist, alllllll the way to the corner store; eye ensconced in all its pink plastic glory- you are correct!



"Those are just facts, and facts are just opinions, and opinions can be wrong. But confidence,....confidence is never wrong!"- Veronica Palmer 

In this particular corner shop, in this particular suburb, during that particular time......everybody made it their business to know your business. Now you see, I come from an extremely different background to where I found myself at that particular moment. They'd lynch me for saying this, but it's true that my family's version of community spirit starts and ends with being a Community of One, the One above any and everything.....put frankly Bigots Extraordinaire. By logical extention a community can not consist of One, it is the complete antithesis of what community stands for, so that should give you an indication of just how much energy they expend on being cognicient of other people and their surroundings. <sigh> So naturally I've adopted the polar opposite stance to almost all people and things- excluding bigots of course. My childhood was peppered with "Stranger Danger", "No, you can't play with the neighbour's kids"...and "Don't make too much noise outside, or you'll aggrevate Aunty Ruby's dog's epilepsy...again."(And to think that dog's name was Lucky....just another furry bigot in my books- how unlucky).

Soul-less childhood aside, let's be fair and admit that I prefer Nosey Parker's just as much as the League of Extraordinary Bigots. Both, ironically are fair game when it comes to whimsical mind-fuckery! Sometimes I think people are just waiting for it to happen.



Deep breathe. I channel Elle Driver in all her eye-patch glory. Look at Moth with my one eye, apologize in my mind. Lick my lips...and start whistling Twisted Nerve ever so quietly to myself. Smile and wait for the obvious to unfold in front of me.

We walk up to the counter, off load enough sweets to fill the counter, offend the morbidly obese, insulin dependent and possibly perpetuate racial pornographic slurs (if you don't know what I'm talking about they're called k__fir balls). I muster up the most Bambified, doe-eyed moisture soaked gaze...transfix it to Indian Mr Burns cum Willy Wonka...smile a small sad smile...and wait.








"What happend to your eye?", please feel free to add whatever stereotypical  accent you want in here.

I turn...smile inside.....look at Moth......
Look at Mr Willy Burns Wonka.....

"He hit me....."


I thought it was friggen h!-lar-ious, he thought I was serious....Moth was indifferent and taught me the consequence of my actions. Apparently my twisted humour is not readily appreciated in the suburban hell that is the Deep Dirty South.... especially around patriarchal Indian Willy Burns Wonka (lol- that name sounds like a title for a fetish porno).

Alas, I am no longer the Charlie to that Chocolate Factory and unfortunately  incognito rat poison shaped candy, imposing tetris walls of awesome decay-inducing sweets and the last remnants of racialistic confectionery are forever beyond my grasp. But I will forever remember the twisted power of that powder pink eye patch.
I didn't always feel this way, but if there's one thing I believe with growing certainty (well at least in my sphere of thought) is that we are all old souls.  I believe our souls are evident...constantly on some plain of existence. That we preside continuously on different levels of consciousness. Logic...or should I rather say Science dictates that energy can never dissipate. What are we, if we are not but intricate networks of charged vibrations, frequency and energy operating on a preternatural timetable? The point?

Well, my point is; that the point is (=)).....to discover who we are, as we are. As whatever role (child, wife, friend, adversary, teacher, partner); in whatever century, age, era; as whatever being- we have a Learning Journey ahead. And part of that learning journey is to find  comfort in those stolen moment of absolute joy, when the most minute of revelations set in...of who we are, of who we were or will be and of what we hope- like shared secrets nesting serenely between close friends.

The hardest part is trying to constantly remind myself  that that's my point. Preach? No, sir. But testify I will...TESTIFY, TESTIFY!!! So, shoo my dear, how I've fallen off the wagon! Problems people...I'm working on them!


So, although I'm back to courting cancer after a phe-fucking-nominal fifteen months (what can I say, Me and the Marlboro Man have a thing going on), the Mr. Delivery guy has seen my face more than my yoga instructor over the past month  and the inconsequential drivel of randoms has hit back with such vengance and furious anger like a home-grown strain of extremely drug resistant TB....I remain resolute.

I hate resolutions....I hate New Years resolutions, so much so.....it's February (well, almost March).....my point exactly.

But goals, alas, need to be set. In other words...I need a carrot...dangling ever so slightly out of my reach. Besides, I'm honest enough to admit that I function better knowing there's a gold star/ reward/ Noddy badge/ glittery crown/ cookies/ a garden of gange at the end of my rainbow. So, in keeping with my fervent and obsessive compulsion to, well, obsessively compile...lists, here we go. And, again, ladies and gentlemen...in no particular order (I just can't handle my own deadlines and expectations...and with it my own thunderously resounding guilt)...here we go, again:

  • Maybe get a scooter, the obligatory license and maybe a few lessons.<PAUSE> Did you hear that? No? Sorry I couldn't hear anything over the sound of  myself having a stroke.So, how about I aim for something less mechanical...a bicycle...#FLASHBACK# ...wait # RACE CARD#. I must be the only person who associates a childhood bicycle accident with Apartheid. I could  never honestly tell you that I've felt oppressed or hard done by by an almost prehistoric government, although I am completely a consequence of the emerging society in which it played at minimum the preface and introductory chapters to my modern day. Nonetheless, this is the only experience that still holds up as clear as day for me and could explain my aversion to bicycles and maybe, church. I was five travelling with my dad on a bicycle on a busy road, got knocked down by fault of a really old-school Oom,who told my dad to "Hou his bek" and shoved a ten rand note in his hand. I was in tears, but this comes as no suprise; I am still known to this day to exhibit a flair for the theatrics. My dad crossed the road to a church just across the way, and the caretaker wouldn't let us use the bathrooms to wash the blood of my legs and arm....(sigh).....garden tap. OMG!!!! Not, Ayoba...goddamnit- I was freaking adorable- how can you turn that down? Anyhoo...now that I've relived that...unnecessarily, I recant the suggestion of bicycle. Nay. Scooter...and will just rock my two trusty legs and remain irreverant of any government. 

  • And my two trusty legs will hopefully (?) definitely Tuladandasana my ass into a yoga retreat and teacher's course.

  • I am going on a looooooooong road trip.....I am dragging Moth. No, of course we are not walking. Transcendent to that degree, I am most definitely not. But, grateful nonetheless that I have a husband whose delusions I do not have to accommodate as gravely as he does mine....and it totally doesn't hurt that has no qualms with automotive vehicles!

  • Master the hula-hoop. You laugh....but really, you have no idea just how scary it is that I'm this close.

  • And with that said, maybe honestly consider joining a squircus. Honestly. And when I'm really honest about joining...on that fateful day I won't call it a squircus.

  • Find a willing Hari Krishna, go Debra Patta on his ass and give him the third degree. If he completes a set of innumerable and anguishingly insurmountable list of questions/ scenarios/ role play/ tests of agility, then maybe, just maybe settle diligently on this life philosophy.

  • Go to the dentist.

  • Figure out how to come back as a cat in my next life.

  • Not make life changing decisions when I'm angry.

  • Not make promises when I'm happy.

  • Quit my job.

  • Rediscover the grindstone...(for a limited time only...then discover owning a farm).

  • Find a track, get back on it....and don't look back.

  • And lastly....stop being so gawddamn hard on myself...these goals will be accomplished- whether in this life or the next! But also hopefully sometime this year....there we go again!