Because the idea of being "left out" makes my skin crawl almost as much as Percocet

Speaking of which, anyone have any Percocet?

Because apparently brain injury + concussion = migraines which arrive out of nowhere and are vomit-in-the-shower-crippling, and are also virtually unaffected by anything known to man (except an illegal substance of which I certainly have never partaken, I'm just assuming since weed is used medicinally for migraines, it must actually work. Which reminds me, I need to move to California, because I could get an Rx for weed for any number of my ridonk ailments, from migraines to anxiety to depression to boredom. What, boredom is TOTALLY a medical condition.)

What was I saying?

Ah yes, it's time for me to hop on the band wagon and write a year-end wrap-up post because we're about to begin The Year the Mayans Got Bored with Making Calendars.

I'm pretty sure they just ran out of weed, but when they called their dealer, his voice mail said he wasn't available to sell  because he was busy getting sacrificed on an alter or some shit.

There's something else we can thank weed for: Postponing the end of the world until 2012.

Anyway, I'm sitting here in my bedroom, surfing the interwebnet because I don't want to watch the UFC fight that's on my TV because EEW, blood is grody, and I'm thinking about how crazy this year has been in almost every way.

2011 was supposed to be my first full year of marriage to my best friend, and while *technically* that's true because no court papers have been filed, I'm pretty sure everyone would have an opinion on just exactly how "married" I am. Not only are we not really married, not really living together, and certainly not best friends any longer, I'm hard pressed to get Gray to speak to me these days.

It's completely understandable, of course, but sucks just the same.

So I lost our beloved Bampa, as well as my husband and friend, not to mention all the brutal alienation such a split inevitably causes. So many of our friends are mutual, and most of those have no interest in my life at this time (I assume) out of loyalty to my husband, which again is understandable, and again, sucks.

The few friends I called my own, mostly from work, I lost touch with when I quit my job, but I think really they were relieved because I was proving to be more exhausting than awesome to them. Also understandable, when our lunch chats morphed from my wedding plans to my dating plans.

I'm an acquired taste at my very best, so throw in a few impulsive mistakes, a few irrational behaviors, and more than a few drunk texts...folks seem to appreciate some space.

So, New Years.

I'm not so naive to believe that January 1st is some kind of magical date. It's not a re-set button. It's nothing but the end of a calendar year, a calendar which was determined thousands of years ago by people WHO SLAUGHTERED OTHER PEOPLE IN THE NAME OF GOD.

So, really, they were a lot like we are now.

But this is what we do, we Americans. We talk about our kids and our ailments and our jobs and our wardrobes, and then we speculate on how those things may change in the next 52 weeks. We make predictions, we make grand statements about our intentions, we set unattainable goals, we thank everyone for believing in our ability to attain those goals, and then we get hammered and watch an electric comet plummet into Times Square, half-way hoping something will go horribly wrong and the ball will go rolling down the sidewalk, taking out every single one of those paper hat-wearing revelers, half-way relieved when it doesn't happen.

And so, I'll jump on that train because it's what I do.

In 2012, I intend to Get My Shit Together, Financially Speaking. I'm starting a really wicked new job on the 9th, and it should more than be enough for me to catch up with my medical bills, et al. I hope to find a second roommate to rent out the other bedroom upstairs, which will help financially as well. I plan to keep my part-time job and work nights and weekends, depositing that chump change into a separate account that I will use for "fun money," leaving the rest of my accounts untouched except for necessities. I plan to start over with a 401K because retirement sounds better every moment I'm alive.

I'd like to grow a tail, but that one is up in the air.

I plan to quit smoking, preferably forEVER this time.

I also intend to train Ramsey and Lucky to bring me beer in bed, and possibly to clean the toilet.

As far as relationships go, I plan to get back in touch with many of my friends. I'd like to make new ones. And I want to be sure that my partnership with Daylow doesn't grow stagnant, predictable, or co-dependent. I have a history of all of those things, and they don't bode well for Happily Ever After.

I'd like to drink less.

I want to camp more.

Daylow and I are going to plant a big garden this year, hopefully saving a small fortune on vegetables and herbs.

I want to see my family more than I got to this year.

Finally, I plan to win the lottery. Sadly, this may be the most likely of all of my goals, although if I do win the lottery, I'll be able to buy toilet-cleaning rats and pay people to be my friends, so it would kill several birds all at once.

Now with 100% more rodent incest

Well, I'm back and I can honestly tell you that I don't have a fucking clue where to start.

I've wrestled back and forth for months now about how to approach the future of this blog, in light of the face that when I began writing here in 2008, I was blissfully pregnant and madly in love with Gray; but now, about three years later, I'm not pregnant (nor am I a mother), Gray and I are in the process of ending our marriage, I have two completely new men living in my house, I quit my job, I lost many, many friends, and I worried the hell out of almost everyone who knows me.

So what to do?

Speak the balls-deep truth about my failed marriage and risk hurting Gray even more than I already have?

Pussy-foot around the truth and kind of...phase my new life into the blog and just hope nobody notices?

Start over with a completely new blog?

Seriously complex first-world problem, right? Boo to the hoo and suck a toe, right? More specifically, CAT, suck on the infected toe of reality and find something more important than this stupid online journal to worry about, like keeping your house and not being psychotic?

Here's the thing though: This stupid online journal is part of what keeps me from going psychotic. It's like therapy. Really, really unethically based therapy. And I'm starting to need this therapy again. It's mid-December in Minnesota, and snow or no snow (currently, it's looking like a shit-stain Christmas), I have my annual SAD flaring up, otherwise known as My Perilous Grasp on Sanity, or My Single-handed Funding of Kleenex Factories World-wide.

I need this blog to survive another life or death battle with my personal Interloper.

But using this blog as an anti-depressant isn't going to do a damn thing, I've decided, if I don't continue writing my real story. The things nobody wants to hear me say. The truth.

Plus, when I look back into my archives, I realize I don't remember 99% of the stories I tell you, which means that in the last few months I've spent on hiatus, I've forgotten at LEAST fourteen separate instances of drinking myself stupid, seven of my Epic Shits, and many other small, ridiculous fluffery that I consider far too closely and then write about here.

Like the tampon vs. the chapstick. WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THAT?

Thank christ I wrote it down.

So here I am, Lolita Razzle Dazzle, resuming my life's work of offending and humiliating other people.

And it feels so good to be home.

PS: I now have two fancy hooded rats named Lucky and Rachel Ray, and they're going to fuck each other soon if I don't separate them. We thought Lucky was a girl, and so we bought a female from Lucky's litter to be a companion, but then giant testicles appeared on Lucky, and Rachel Ray is most definitely rocking a vagina, and they're almost old enough to mate. But I can't justify two separate cages because WHAT WOULD THAT SAY ABOUT ME, plus the ball python Raven is already irritated that she didn't get a chance to eat Lucky and Rachel Ray, and I don't like pissing off snakes if I can help it.

So either one of the rats becomes snake food (which I cannot do, no fucking way, they're my bayyyybeeeeees), we split them up and get two completely different companion rats that they cannot fuck (unless they swing that way), or we allow these little bastards to have incestuous rat sex and produce up to fourteen separate baby rats, which would then need to be hand fed because Rachel Ray is too young to nurse her babies properly, and then I'll end up living in a house full of rodents because all the babies are my grandchildren and I am insane.

So here: Have some cute rats