This weekend, I commented in a post that I had once had a laparoscopic appendectomy and that I consequently bled on my mattress. That comment received seventeen stars, to date.

I do not understand:

A) why I felt the need to share that I bled on my mattress

B) why anyone essentially “liked” that I bled on my mattress, let alone seventeen individuals liking it enough to move their fingers accordingly

C) why I am creating this post about it*

D) how a lot of people can not hear how hateful they sound a lot of the time (thinking about that post about the crazy woman in line at Trader Joe’s shitting all over the woman who let her ahead in line, but also about people like that, in general, of which there are far too many, and I worry there’s no cure other than hitting them between the eyes with a ball peen hammer.)

Anna, two weeks ago with her chug, Winnifred. AKA Winnie/Frederika/Vinnie.

In other news, my mother, Anna, died last Tuesday and every time I accomplish anything in the way of yard work, gardening, art, or housecleaning, I keep thinking, “Oh, I should text a photo to Anna.” I am realizing that now I have no one to lovingly withhold praise from me. You would not think I would miss that, but I sure do. A lot.

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It’s only been six days and I am so very tired of being unpredictably heartbroken at inopportune times. Just ask the UPS guy: it’s pretty fucking awkward, the unexpected muscularity of abrupt sobbing. Also, I have taken to talking to her ashes, which came in a deep navy velvet drawstring bag, and I keep telling her she looks like a gift bottle of Seagram’s gin.

Please do me a favor and miss Anna for a moment, when you have a chance. She was funny, smart and painfully shy, so no risk she’ll haunt you peskily.

*yes, I know I buried the lede. It’s an awkward way to begin a conversation, though.