To the people who took the time to read and say embarrassingly kind things about this post, thank you.

To the people who shared their own stories of struggle and loss: I’m so sorry.

To the people who are worried about themselves or someone they know, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (US and Canada) is at 1-800-273-8255. Use it.

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.

Effed-Up Shit, It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

On survival, and enough.

It’s two-thirty in the morning. I’d like to be sleeping. Instead, I’m propped up on a corner of the sofa, bleeding like a stuck pig and trying not to whimper audibly as I wait for this horse-tranquilizing doze of Advil to quell the menstrual cramps that feel like a dozen animated claw hammers trying to escape my uterus from within. I’m tired, and I’m cranky, and it hurts, and this sucks.

But I’m alive.

Connie’s not.

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New Jersey, Stuck in My Craw!, Warning: Strident Feminism Ahead

Erase Me

Last week, my lucky spouse got to take a trip to the local city clerk’s office — jackpot! — to obtain a certified copy of our marriage license because I could not, for the life of me, remember that I’d married him.

Kidding! Of course I remember. We actually needed it for a bet.

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It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

From a Craigslist – Amsterdam apartment listing: “Unfurnished and immediately available very spacious, well laid out and very well maintained double-down house of about 96m², situated in a beautiful location at Kerkstraat in the center between the Utrechtsestraat and the Amstel.”

So, it’s a two-between apartment between two pieces of fried chicken? They’re smoking some good shit over there.

My other apartment is a Chipotle burrito bowl.