some people never go crazy. what truly horrible lives they must lead.

Let’s talk about how holy fuck my twenties are so blindly confusing but at the same time wickedly awesome so most of the time I just end up feeling like Dorothy at the center of a tornado masquerading as my life minus the whole shelter of a flying house thing, but as I’m not entirely sure it will ever get a.) less confusing b.) more awesome or 3.) not be all tornadoy,  so most of the time I’m kind of just content to spin.

And then there are days like Tuesday.

Days when I am far too acutely aware of just how much of a mind fuck 23 is.

Days when some mythological force I don’t believe in but chooses to exist anyway, because apparently I don’t dictate the reality of the cosmos, reminds me that holy shit I have no idea what I’m doing, no master plan, no ulterior motives, method to my madness,  inkling about what the hell I’m getting myself into this time, no control over what’s next, no really, I have NO FUCKING CLUE, but that’s ok because  nobody else does either, so I’m just going to continue  banging around my gilded cage, close my eyes, and really feel my brains being whisked into god’s omelet.

Chosen form of communication for such messages of life affirm-y-ness employed by aforementioned science/god/beast?

Text message, of course.

No, no. God’s not text messaging me directly, though I do admit I totally want to change the contact info of an infamous woman who may just be logged into my phone as ‘Jennifer PR’ to, rename her, well, ‘GOD,’ because then god would text message me things like “I never want to wear pants again, just fancy headdresses,” or “I drank so much wine last night my pee smells like raisins,” and HELLO what could be funnier than a dried-fruit urinating, Gaga-esque god, even if said entity exists only in my imagination.

Nothing, that’s what.

But no, neither god, nor my neo Jennifer god has sent me electronic advice befitting of a fortune cookie as of late, but rather, I came to the realization that, holy shit if anyone read my text message history they’d think I was more insane than the love child of Sylvia Plath, Hunter S. Thompson, and a spoon.

Seriously people, let’s just take a stroll of the few hundred (I have a problem, shut up) texts I received yesterday.

Reproductive rights? Bottle raising inch long bunnies? Bacon flavored bloody marys? Abortion? Wedding gowns? Mental institutions? Australia? Tattoos? Dirty thoughts?  Mathematical symbols? Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Depression? The merits of French, Yoko Ono, and calligraphy? Weather patterns? Infidelity? Beer? Ejaculating rhinestones? Marriage proposals? Indecipherable exclamations of horror towards mankind? Declarations of undying love? Addiction? Unicorns?

Yup, all made appearances in my inbox.

The words cunt, hip bone, and I hate you were also present.

And that was only Tuesday.

And while it may be the effects of a variety of sugar laden and super processed products I just shoved into my mouth massaging my soul and making me feel all sorts of sparkley, I can’t seem to be anything but epically thankful for this lovely, tornadoy, unplanned, sticky and confusing mess of my life, because the people that inhabit this plane of existence are just so fucking rad.

The fact that somehow I’ve assembled a motley crew of characters for whom all the world’s a stage and my inbox is the appropriate setting for queries of the possibly dire, probably insane, those of a serious nature, passing greeting, or ruminations on unicorns and alcohol is fucking brilliant.

So no, I’m quite sure it will never get less [insert adjective here], but that’s alright with me, because all I want is more.

More of everything.

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~ by rubylocks on March 10, 2010.

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