“It’s been seven hours and fifteen days…”
Or more like seven months since I last posted. And for that, I am sorry.
I’m sorry because what devoted readers I did have have probably forgotten my very existence.
I’m sorry because I have found myself in a maelstrom funk that has continuously tried to drown any creativity out of me since I’ve quit writing.
I’m sorry because the drama of my life still exists, and you’ve all missed out on the daily dose of neurosis.
So let me sum up:
My child is now a cheeky little shit, who’s favorite thing to do is yell “SHIT!” at the top of his lungs and giggle uncontrollably, or to get right in my face and mimic a howling monkey. Actually, he’s a pretty good kid, who loves me more than anyone else, so all the other stuff is alright.
I took my Rockstar to Vegas for my birthday, where we mostly had a fabulous time, other than the moments following my hour-long search for him during a concert, where he drunkenly cried, “Fuck you! Fuck you!” at me for no good reason. This was followed by my walking three miles down the Las Vegas Strip by myself in a tipsy rage, which was somewhat stabilized by the many offers of hugs (and money) I received. Whatever fun we did have was dampened by having a crazy man open fire on innocents from Mandalay Bay the very next day after we got home.
I’ve replaced my serving job with teenagers with a serving job with college students and am now suffering through the hell that is called Endless Shrimp. My coworkers all think I’m completely nuts, and I think they are not wrong.
I have in mind a new book series I must bring myself to work on, so it is yet to be determined whether my re-entrance to blogging will be successful.
To all of you that are still around, I’ve missed you, and will endeavor to try and get my muchness back.
XOXO
P.S. In the meantime, enjoy a Halloween picture.
Sparklebumpsthebookwhore 