I have been, quite literally, stunned by all the wonderful and kind things you have had to say to me here, via email and in several other mediums. It is amazing how the tubes of this Internet can bring us all together to say such nice things and, best of all, they’re about me. I feel like it’s my birthday but without the cake and, really…how hard would it be for someone to send me a cake? I’ll give you my address…you only have to ask.

As I was telling Janie’s new sister-wife, Monica, over a very long and swear-filled (she called me a cunt, you guys!) chat last night/at 530am, I do not want to appear as if I wander around in this cloud of misery all day, every day. Yes, I have some problems (oh, really…I couldn’t tell, you asshole) and I carry them around with me all the time because they are a part of me. Despite that, I have a really happy life. I have a most gorgeous and supportive wife that loves me, a dog that tries to follow me out the door to work every morning, a family that is intensely loyal and crazy in love with me despite my varied imperfections and all that shit I did in years 1-24, friends that make me laugh and cry and usually both at the same time and three cats that keep me in my place by peeing on my bath towel. I have immeasurable joys that I do not want to appear at all ungrateful for. I have so much more than many other people and that, too, is overwhelming.

When I started posting on this website I didn’t know how it would turn out and there have been innumerable times where I have wanted to quit and run the other direction because I have felt…boring. And the one thing that has kept me here are the people who read this website and tell me that I have connected with them in some way. And there is little else in my life that is as precious as the idea that even one word I write here has brought a smile to someone’s face. That alone is worth the struggle to stay and work it out and I am ever grateful to have friends like each of you, regardless of the cake issue which I hope we can resolve ASAP.

So if you promise to keep reading and maybe just email me or comment or hit me up in Google chat to say hello and tell me about your day and spend some time listening to me talk about how my rotting ovaries are rotting and rolling around in my shoe, I promise to keep writing and being hilarious because you deserve that much. Let’s all get married and live together on a compound in the remote wilderness of Montana. We can make our own cheese and wash our clothes by beating them on a rock by the river. Its going to be awesome. Amen.

I have always wanted to be someone special. All my life I’ve thought about the ways I wanted to matter to different people, how I have wanted to impress and see the look on someone else’s face when I have accomplished something profound. And yet there was never any real sort of satisfaction in the kind words and congratulations of others. It all left me feeling more empty than ever before. If not that, then what? What am I searching for and why, no matter how fucking hard I try, can I never seem to find it?

For as long as I can remember I have been completely terrified of people. I have no recollection of where or how this started, only memories of all the times I’ve let it get in the way of living.  I’ve allowed myself to become so burdened by my insecurities that I now look at where I am and what I’m doing, and I feel a very real sense of disappointment.  I had so many dreams at different points in my life, all pushed aside by that stupid voice in the back of my head that always told me I could never be good enough.  After years of therapy and careful introspection I’d like to think it would have subsided, but it is still there sometimes, jumping out of the bushes,  pushing me down on the ground when I least expect it.  It always comes in those moments when I start to get my footing and feel sure of myself.  And I talk about it as if it is an entity separate from myself when it is, in fact, a monster entirely of my own creation. I am the one telling myself I’m not worth it, I am not beautiful, I am not smart, I am not talented, I am not ever going to be enough.  And it can become so overwhelming sometimes to feel like you have no control over your own mind, that you can’t tell that motherfucker in your head to fuck the hell off.  And there is no amount of talk or reassurance that anyone around you can offer to ever make you believe that you are, in fact, not a loser.

I make a concerted effort  not to let this part of myself show because I am well aware of how unattractive it is; how sad it is to admit that there are times when you see yourself in such a distorted view that all you know is complete and utter hate and disgust.  And yet it is there, it is a part of me only because I allow it.  And I want to say it here because I know I’m not the only one.  I know I’m not the only person who let’s that negative self-talk shit all over their potential, kicking it like a building made of blocks and before you know it the pieces are scattered all over the basement and lodged in the wall.

I don’t have any certain wisdom or resolution to offer up in all of this.  I imagine that if I did,  I wouldn’t be here to write it.  It’s so easy to look at other people and see how inexplicably beautiful  they are (and holy fucking shit, people, you are GOD DAMN STUNNING) and then to never recognize the same things in yourself.  Certainly not when you need to see it the most.  And I don’t know how to get there but I’m fighting so hard for it because I know it’ll make me a better wife, sister, daughter,  friend and above all else, a better me.

That’s Gus in the background in his new skull and crossbones sweater, feeling tough.  He’s ready to show that hydrant who’s boss.

So, this book I can’t shut up about (which I  mentioned several weeks ago) is about fruit.  Mostly about ultra-exotic fruits and the people who hunt them.  That’s why it’s called Fruit Hunters.  See what he did there?  He’s clever…calling it what it is.  Not everyone does that.  Like this doctor I once saw named Phuc Dat.  As it turns out, he really doesn’t want to phuc dat.  Not even as a joke.

I digress.  In the book about fruit and fruit hunters there is discussion of a certain group of people who only ever eat fruit.  Those people are called fruitarians.  Also, they’re called INSANE because last time I checked, cheese and cupcakes weren’t fruits and what the hell do you have against cheese and cupcakes, motherfuckers!?

Some fruitarians will only eat fruit if it has fallen from the tree.  They will not pick it themselves.  But OH.  OH NO.  It’s gets weirder.  Some fruitarians will not even eat the seeds because they contain “future plants.”  Listen.  I like fruit as much as the next guy.  I’m also actually pretty picky about the fruit I eat because I don’t like the texture of ripened, soft, juicy fruits.  I like my fruits tart and hard.  So I get the idea that fruit is delicious.  I like it better that broccoli and celery and all those other vegetable I can’t be bothered to eat anymore.  I can understand the idea of not eating anything but fruit.  It sounds fun.  I can see doing it as a cleanse and then maybe I have diarrhea for three days because WOW.  Fruit.  Dangerous to the bottom system.  Fine. But, a lifestyle?  A LIFESTYLE?  It’s worse that being gay, is all I’m saying.  If being gay is an abomination, than being a fruitarian is like being gay twice.  You’re gay and you’re gay again because that’s how ridiculous it is to eat fruit for the rest of your life and to pick every seed out because it’s a “future plant.”  You’re gay and you’re gay again and then you’re bombing abortion clinics because they’re future people.  Also, on top of all that, you’re a homosexual.  GAYS ARE BAD!

This is a gross side note that is in the book, too.  One native culture was fruitarian, but really only out of necessity.  They only ever had fruit to eat.  Even the fruit was pretty scarce because, I think, they were in some desert somewhere.  I can’t be bothered to look it up in the book that is sitting right here next to me even if I did read it only like 4 pages ago.  Since food was so hard to come by, they picked the seeds out of their feces and made some sort of seed pulp and ate that.  WHAT. THE. HELL.  Congratulations to you for being creative, I guess, and staying alive.  I wouldn’t have noted that in the history books, though.  Because now some crazy lady in Seattle only knows of you as those Fruitarians that ate shit seeds.

One famous fruitarian, not counting Ghandi who did it for 5 years before quitting because of health issues, is a gentleman named Johnny Lovewisdom.  He also experimented with other extreme diets including, my personal favorite, Breatheairianism.  And yes, it is exactly what it sounds like, which is probably why Johnny is now dead.  Also, one of the more recent and notable Breatheairianists was caught with a house full of food and though she blamed it on her husband – I feel pretty certain she was eating it, because she had Cheetos dust all over her face.  I made that up, but that’s not what matters.  What matters is that you can’t live on breathing air and I’ll prove it to you in several days after I test your stupid theory on Carson.  Then you’ll be sorry.  But I won’t.

As you can probably guess, fruitarians often suffer from malnutrition because their diets do not include some very important nutrients including “calcium, protein, iron, zinc, vitamin D, most B vitamins (especially B12), and essential fatty acids,” though one creative gentleman mentioned in the book said he gets his B12 from cunnilingus and don’t worry, that’s probably the last time you’ll see that word on this website but I’m pretty sure it’ll bring some fascinating Google searchers. In addition, many fruitarians claim that their diet helps them develop direct communication with God but, really, let’s be honest.  If I had that much sugar – natural or otherwise – I’d think  I could talk to God, too.  I mean, I just ate some fruit snacks and I’m pretty sure  Metatron and Archangel Michael are having a fistfight in the hallways outside my office.