Alright Universe, you made your point!

“I’m fucking done with sadness, and I don’t know what’s up the ass of the universe lately but I’ve HAD IT. I AM GOING TO BE FURIOUSLY HAPPY, OUT OF SHEER SPITE. … I’m going to destroy the goddamn universe with my irrational joy…”- Jenny Lawson, from her book Furiously Happy

I got recent blood work done and as I see it, it’s the Universe finally smacking me so fucking damn hard in the back of the head to get my attention. The Universe sometimes needs to be a royal cunt about getting her point across, but she’s going to make it whether you like it or not. According to the tests, my hypothyroidism is still very much an annoying thing, but now I’m pre-diabetic. This means I’m now officially at a crossroads regarding my health that I, temper tantrum brewing within, must do something about my weight. I can’t ignore it.

Whenever I attempt to do something like this, my brain demons crawl out of their holes to lash out at EVERYTHING. The little bastards just fight every idea, zap whatever energy I have, and put up mental roadblocks all over the place. I swear, the fuckers even attach a 4000lbs boulder to my waist making it physically difficult to do even the tiniest of attempts toward my goal. Self-sabotaging twatgoblins!!!!

I’m already struggling against another bout of depression, one that’s drained me to almost empty. I got my MMJ card last year and a few nights ago my usual bedtime head conversations wandered over into a poorly lit area of my brain. It ran across Jenny Lawson’s book, Furiously Happy. In it was the above quote and, as if the weed had sprinkled glitter on the thought, it began to shine. I should be furiously happy too!! DEMENTEDLY HAPPY BITCHES!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *insert evil diabolical laughter*

There are at least four things to keep in one’s mind when starting this according to Lawson. Since I’m positive she and I could very easily be insanity twins, I believe I will be able to beat the balls off of the mental twatgoblins that live in my head. I mean, they never pay rent, leave their wet towels on the floor, and they keep licking the walls. Who licks walls??!! I’m sure they taste bad.

First, one should never apologize for loving the things you love. I love pop culture, weird oddities, and randomness. This one I pretty much already abide by willingly these days. Being 40 now, I openly taunt normalcy with my blue hair, my tattoos and piercings, and a love of costume jewelry and hair things. Hubby may roll his eyes at some of my choices, but he has learned in our eighteen years of being together that all he’s going to get in return is my pierced tongue sticking out at him.

Second piece of Lawson’s method is to fake it like you know what you’re doing. Hell, as an artist this is stupidly easy because honestly historically NONE of us know what we’re doing and art critics were only created in order to help bullshit the public into believing that we DID know what we were doing the whole time! If someone asks about why I’m doing something, I’ll bullshit my way out of it with my sparkling brilliance! Or my usual response, “Why not?”

Third nugget of Lawson’s wisdom is the hardest one for me personally as it’s one of my greatest weaknesses: it’s okay to fail and okay to retreat for a bit. Failing makes me spiral, as it’s connected to some of my abuse recovery as well as my ADD. But Lawson’s, as well as my therapist, advice is to listen to what my body is telling me, respect it, acknowledge my emotions, and don’t push myself too far. Little steps at my own pace makes the potential for anxiety lower. When I’m not feeling social and just want to burrow, I have to give myself permission to do this sometimes. Hubby knows now to not push too hard, yet knows how to make sure I don’t burrow too deeply for too long.

Fourth in the lineup is the most important thing to remember: never, EVER forget that you matter to someone, and that someone’s day is better for you being a part of it. Hubby loves to watch me be a dork, the oddball floating on a unicorn inter-tube down the Sea of Normal. We go to Dickens faire for his birthday, and this last one I attached my plush octopus Jose de Pulpo to my shoulder to go with my tentacle top hat. I kept getting compliments on Jose, especially by kids who I let pet Jose, and even helped another little girl attach her own octopus to her shoulder. Hubby remarked to me later that the best part of his birthday was watching how I lit up each time someone approached me. He said, “I know that I can cast a big shadow, and that often you’ve found yourself under it. But watching you get attention for being, well, you, was more fun to watch than anything else.” *swoon* Damn I love that man!

So I’ve decided to give the middle finger to feeling like shit stuffed inside a bag. I refuse to be sent back to where I was: unemployed… Greenland!! Wait,…………………………, that’s Princess Bride. Sorry about that. (turns TV down) I refuse to crawl into the hole my mother has, and most importantly I don’t want end up in a motor scooter. At the very least not until my nineties. When I’m stylishly old like Auntie Mame and throwing confetti around the most awesome old folks home. I am going to be scary happy! Hubby may end up wanting a dart gun that hits me with 100ccs of Thorazine under some notion that it will prevent my possible incarceration in a mental ward because of something I did at the grocery store, but I see that as further evidence of his love for me.


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