Remember in late 2019 the trend, “hindsight is 20/20,” went viral like a global health crisis on the socials? Ah, the good old days. Back when we thought “pandemic” was erased from the dictionary after the Spanish flu kicked rocks.
Trump was facing an impeachment trial to kick off 2020. Maybe he’d be thrust, with a bunch of feet at his ass, out of America, crying.
The world was stoked for a better year. A fresh beginning. A year that’s twinsies with Baba Wawa’s 20/20. Perfect vision.
I totally was. It would be a pure launch into fabulosity with endless horizons. Forgotten pasts. Clean slates. My divorce was finalized in 2019. Maybe I’d sashay off into the horizon with star trails shooting out of my ass. I’d whip my big ass hair in the wind and wipe the problems off my shoulders like Jay Z.
Get. That. Dirt off your shoulder.
Then 2020 was like, take care.
It smashed its gluten-free cider bottle on the bar, pointed the jagged tip at us and said, “Come at me bro.”
I’m not going to talk about 2020. Fuck that bish.
I was reading through my informal diary the other day and was completely mesmerized by the lovely trash I had penned, especially during the pandemic.
Sometimes after I celebrate substances (others may prefer the term, “abuse” substances), I diatribe the hell all over my notes app. It’s a mess. Thoughts spray everywhere.
But it’s become my life’s timeline and it’s been roaring since the aughts.
The entries range from solid-gold lines I hear on the idiot box, column ideas, random thoughts that crawl through my head like an ant farm that’s filled with levels, levels, levels of mazes and dead ends (“find Cosmo Kramer’s ‘levels’ quote in notes, Siri”), alongside pure trash.
Christy, I found: “I’m going to build these different levels, with steps, and it’ll all be carpeted with a lot of pillows.” (Seinfeld S2, E2.)
My diary will one day evolve into the greatest American novel. The string of poems I penned after I watched a star dance in the sky this summer are epic. I wish I could smoke my diary. It would be a fabulous trip.
Speaking of trips, I went on vacation to visit my brothers in Hawaii for 11 days in August. It was the first vacation I’ve taken in 5 years without my work laptop.
There, I saw a star dance. No joke. It was insane.
It was the tail-end of the Perseid meteor shower. I was sitting in my brothers’ backyard on the desert side of Kauai, staring at the stars above their 60-foot coconut palm. (Their backyard is a trademarked Happy Place. It’s where panic attacks go to die. Where emotions go to dance. Where love goes to spoon. Where life goes to swim.)
I was listening to tunes and staring at the sky when I waved to a shining star right above me, smiling. Then I swear to ayahuasca, it danced around the sky. It was fucking magical.
And here’s the thing, I was not “celebrating” drugs. (See, that sounds much better.)
I was sipping on wine and sucking on some weed. But those don’t count, they’re simple anxiety Band-aids. I was like maybe only 12 percent buzzed.
I closed my eyes, I rubbed them. I went inside to get a refill and when I came back, the star started dancing for me again right when I sat down. It was so bizarre. I felt so enlightened. Like my brain had been opened up to other worlds and other portals, or levels of being. (Not Kramer’s levels.)
Am I a goddess?
Now listen here you damn heathens. I have gone crazy, so I know what that’s like. I’ve dabbled with hallucinogens and I know what that’s like. And I’ve stared at the sun until my eyes bled when I was younger because the church told us to. So I know what that’s like.
And now I watched a star dance. For like 15 minutes.
Look at me, friends! I’ve evolved from a corrupt Catholic schoolgirl into an enlightened hippie.
If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sashay off into the horizon with star trails shooting out of my ass, whipping my big ass hair in the wind and wiping the problems off my shoulders like Jay Z.
Get. That. Dirt off your shoulder.