FOUR AND THREE AND TWO AND ONE...

I mean, look, I know there are good times and bad. Not all of life is going to be rainbows and unicorns (unless you are taking lots of drugs that you got from a guy on a street corner instead of from your psychopharmacologist like a normal crazy person). But even allowing for the law of averages, this has not been a great few days. Let me share four highlights with you.

First, my elder child feels free to tell me that he "hates spending time with Mama." That's right. Apparently I carried this child for 40 weeks, and was eviscerated from hipbone to hipbone so he could enter this world, only so he could wait five years to inform me that he "only likes spending time with Daddy." So there's that.

My job currently sucks ass. Sorry, but there's really no polite way to express it. Shit is fucked up in that piece, and it's beginning to wear on me. On everyone who works there, really, but this is my blog, so let's stay focused, OK?

Also, and this is the kicker, my therapist has fucking cancer. That's right. You heard me. The person on whom I have relied upon for the last 20 years to keep me from putting my head in an oven has CANCER. I realize that this is probably harder for her (not to mention her family) than it is for me, but again, let's not lose focus.

Then, to top off a miserable excuse of a week, MCA has to up and fucking kick. (Also probably worse for him than for me, but whatever). I saw them play with Run DMC at Madison Square Garden. The first time my mother caught me drinking I was singing "Paul Revere" at the top of my lungs when she came to pick me up at a friend's house (a story for another time). I still know all the lyrics. For some reason, one of the Beastie Boys dying has brought me very low.

I  am going to stay up all night listening to License to Ill. See you tomorrow.

XOXOXO

ABC