Love Letters

I am so full of anger,

it’s starting to rot.

to turn into hate and resentment.

Letting the rot set in is tempting. How freeing would it be to no longer feel anger on behalf of all humans, animals, plants, all life on this planet?

How much easier it would be to close off?

But I still remember you.

I remember your kindness and patience as you let people yell at you because ”sometimes people just
need to be able to yell.”

I remember you being there when he no longer was, helping us all live through the gaping lack of him,
and your sweet temperament growing amongst the fierce, volatile personalities around you.

I remember your mischief and challenging conventions and the intensity of your grief. I remember your
joy in providing us with what you were denied.

I remember the community you three came from, and how they they offered support in times of sorrow,
and a shared joy as well as shared grief.

And

I remember your love of traveling, the discovering of the local and overlooked and real over the much-
sought and spoken of, and I remember your smile.

I remember you reaching to those overlooked or scorned, and your offer of a tootsie roll and a hand to
hold despite all your importance and those calling on your time.

I wish I had more time with all of you.
I wish I had more time to learn from all of you.
Instead I listen to the memories of those left behind,
and observe how much you’re still needed, loved, and depended on.

And you,
oh most recent loss.

I remember your enduring wonder.
I remember your ceaseless quest for learning.
I remember your humbleness.
Above all I remember your open mind and optimism.
You, who lived through so much.
Who struggled through the Great Depression,
who found the mass graves of innocents,
who led men to death and blood,
who saw the violence of riots,
who saw all humanity had to offer in
selfishness
anger
ignorance
blood-thirst
apathy
and never ceased to find and point out humanity’s
love
compassion
empathy
kindness
generosity.

You, who always found hope.
You, who was always willing to change
to continue to find a better world for all,
a more peaceful, kind, just world.

Without you to show me hope,
I’m tempted to stop looking for it.
To embrace the status quo and stagnate.

But,
to do so would be to lose all I have left of you.

When you walked with me
when you showed up when he could no longer could
when you called for peace and made crumbcake for me
when you followed me to where I felt safe
when you looked for me and never failed to find me
when you held my hand and listened

the world could burn and rage and kill and rape and weep and scorn,
I would still feel safe.
I would feel that there was a future to look forward to.

And so,
I pull your love for me close,
for you all choose it,
and that choice did not die with you.

And
I watch the flames flicker
with the blooming of a flower.

And
I watch the blades fall
with the light of your smile.

If the likes of you could exist
in such a place as this,
then there remains yet
hope and love and joy.

Your lives are all I need
to teach me courage.
Your smiles are all I need
as my reason to live.

I am so full of anger

that threatens to rot.

To turn to hate and resentment.

And so I retreat to the blank page
that’s always waiting for me
to remember and write
what words I need to see.

And so, dear reader,
I remember:

There is hope yet.
For while humanity circles back to prejudice, fear, and hate
there always blooms understanding, compassion, and love.

And there is always love for you,
dear reader,
though it grieves me that you may have to search for it.

But know,
that once you find this,
a letter to those past and
to those to come and
to those reading right now,
you have only to return here to find love and acceptance.

Dear reader:

Look for the love that we have written into being for you.
Look for the love that we have painted and drawn into being for you.
Look for the love that we have composed into being for you.
Look for the love that we have spoken into being for you.

For all the hate that exists for you,
there is also love.

And for all attempts to create rules for love and acceptance,
love and acceptance exist despite and outside of any governing.

They may try to hide its existence,
to rewrite its history
but it is there,
because it is much more powerful than all attempts to destroy it.

It is there,
because I and others write it everywhere we can
in hopes that it will reach you.

We love you.
You are not alone.
We love you.
Your life is precious because it exists.
We love you.
You deserve peace and joy and rest.
We love you.

We love you

We love you

Oh,

how we love you.

Please

dear reader, I beg:

know that I love you.

Ode to Greta Thunberg

An Ode to Greta Thunberg

Or

An Apology, from someone not yet 30
to someone not yet 20.

When I was young the message on repeat

was to pursue your dreams [repeat]

the message was [is] young people are

change

hope

        (important)

        (powerful)

I never dreamed of fame or power

    I dreamed of less more

I wanted to create change

I wanted to make this world better

     for you

       and everyone to come after

     I’m sorry

I doubt enough people [“adults”] have told you

    “I’m sorry”

But I am, I am

I did not want you to have to be

“savior”

“hero”

“protagonist”

I wanted you to be happy,

    safe

    free

I fought so,

      so

so

     many battles

(and lost them all)        [or so it feels]

    I became tired, worn down

    (I developed chronic pain)

I had to pick and choose my battles

(I decided the change I could create was in
my day to day life and those in it,
to concentrate on just living and use that as fuel)

(I decided sometimes the battles that

cannot be won

are the ones worth fighting,
just so those wounded know,
        that someone was willing

to fight

      and lose

because they were worth it
because they are worth it
because they don’t need to do anything
           to be worth it.)

I see you (and others younger than I)
and you accomplish so much [seem to, at least]

and it’s

      frustrating

       it

       makes me proud

       I grieve over it

    I did not want this

I did not want the younger to have to

fight the same battles

I did not want you to

    lose

             be dismissed

    be insulted

    feel powerless

    be a cog in the spin-spin-spinning wheel

to have to do this

I wanted a better world for you

    I wanted to make it better for you.

I wanted to fix it for you.

I [we] are worn thin

      but we are full of anger + betrayal

      and hope hasn’t died yet                     [at least spite and rebellion haven’t]

      the fighting is far from over.

I hope you take time for yourself

 (please, take time for yourself)

     because the world is worth it, but so are you

I hope you let yourself rest

      I hope you don’t burn out

      or become drained

  (I hope you never, never, nevernevernever feel as powerless/worthless/useless
  as I so often [always] do.)

  Your calls for action are heard,

  for there are those ears that listen
  as well as those that do not

  I’m sorry I can’t do more

  I’m sorry you felt you had to do this

I apologize on behalf of all those

     who should,

        but don’t

  You are so strong

  but you’re allowed to be weak too.

       Please know

I still want to make the world better

   for you and all who come after

       Please know

   I want you to find rest

  and peace

       Please know

There are many who fight with you

  in every corner of the world

     (in places no one gives a second look
      in places no stops looking at)

       Please know

You have value just because you live,

  just because you are you

       Please know

Your voice is heard

You are seen

You have accomplished so much

                   even if, especially if, it doesn’t feel like it

       Thank you

(I doubt you hear that enough either)

 for reminding me why I fought to begin with
 for reminding me why it matter
 for taking action in ways I canno

       Thank you

  for loving humanity and this world

  enough to fight

      (despite all depites)

I hope, with all that I am,

that when you are not yet 30

  you will not carry the regrets and guilt

that I can’t rid myself of

  and that you will still carry

passion, hope, joy, and love.                     [as I retain]

I hope someday you will not feel

the overwhelming pressure behind changing the world
the unbearable knowledge that the world has so much that must still be changed

I hope someday you will rest

      and the world will be better

not because of you,

but for you,

and with you.

 

-Not Yet 30

 

My dear, let me tell you what society refuses to. My dear, let me tell you the truth.

I’m beginning to think that our society kills more talented people than it fosters. Likely many are lost just due to the hurdles that people with any sort of chronic health problem face.

You tell me my only worth is how productive I am, how much money I make.

All I want is to be a productive member of society.

But again, and again, and againagainagainagain you block my path with the same old wall,
and it’s getting harder and harder and harder to keep scaling it.

And the only message I can take from it is that society doesn’t care whether I can be productive or functional because they see no worth in me, nor any need for me.
I wasn’t expecting empathy or understanding. At this point I have learned not to expect common human decency even. Compassion is something that I find to be lacking in our society at every level.

I did expect that there was some sort of expectation of me to become functional.

This, I see, is not true. Or perhaps it was once but then it took too much time and effort to acquire results, and the results were not optimal.

Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I can keep fighting the same fight. All I long to do is to give up and just let myself fade away.
However, there are others like me, and I can’t help but care.

It costs me almost everything I still have left—emotionally, mentally, physically—to care. No doubt I’d be much happier if I could curtail my caring to a select few. But my heart still beats and my eyes still see and my brain still thinks and I am angry angry angry at those who can do so much with so little time or energy or effort but who just don’t care to.

I do not want to become an imitation of such people.

I do not want to become that breed of monster.

And so I cling to my anger, and fuel it. For it is the only thing that stops me from sliding into apathy. It is anger that fuels my compassion and kindness, even if it may taint them at times.

Anger is the only thing that has kept me fighting for the past few years. Whenever I feel myself slip-falling-tripping into numbness, disdain, or worst-of-all apathy, anger is the only light I have that burns bright enough to keep me from dissolving into such uncaring shadows.

Still, I can’t help but wonder how much more I could do and be if I wasn’t held back by pain, depression, fatigue, low energy, and the constant battle with uncaring systems.

The truth is: things probably wouldn’t change much. I wouldn’t have any more power than I do right now. And there are always so many demands on time and energy that it is easy to keep using it and have nothing left for what you truly care about.

I have so little energy. So few usable hours. And so I am always, always conscientious of how I use it, and what and whom I want to use it for.

Dear Reader, all I want is to help. All I have ever wanted is to help people in whatever way I can. I do not want anyone else to feel as alone as I do. I do not want anyone else to feel as helpless as I do. I do not want anyone else to feel as vulnerable as I do. I do not want anyone else to have to live with the physical pain I do.

In my darkest moments I fantasize about switching roles and seeing those in power writhing in pain, crying for relief. I fantasize with glee the moment I tell them “no” or “denied.” I imagine them feeling lonely, helpless, vulnerable.
And then, my mind turns from such unrealistic, discomfiting images of revenge and malice to those who I know are hurting right now. They are the ones who matter. They are so much more important to me.

Reader, whatever society tells you about your worth, I tell you:

You Have Worth.
And you do not need to do anything to be worthy
of love and compassion and basic human decency.

I wish so much that I could put emotions into print so that when you read my words you can feel how much anger I have on your behalf, how much determination I have on your behalf, and the sheer capacity of love and kindness my cynical, worn heart can still hold for you and because of you.

You Have Worth.
Reader, please believe this, if nothing else.
You Have Worth.

For the Foodies

And today we introduce: a mini escapade into cooking!!

So the background (I’m a writer, of course there needs to be a story behind this, however minimum) is that my grandma made French toast and I had never had any like hers and it was the best. It was still golden brown on the outside, but the inside was creamy, almost custardy. And it was stupendously delicious.

So I set out to recreate, or somewhat recreate, that.

For one thing I know she used “real” bread as opposed to wonder-type bread, “real” bread with nice thick slices. I stupidly went to Walmart for this so options were limited. I ended up buying Aunt Millie’s Texas Toast.

The other thing I did besides ensure I had thicker slices of bread was to soak each piece of bread longer in the egg mixture.

Annnnd it worked! Visualize that perfect golden brown on both sides of each piece of bread, smell and taste that maple syrup and those blueberries! It was custardy on the inside and the best French toast I ever made.

I do think the Texas Toast was just the slightest bit thicker than I would have liked, but I got the effect I wanted.

I’ve never been to a restaurant that had that custardy interior, or seen a recipe trying to achieve that. So listen to your grandparents! Or people in general. There’s always something someone in the world knows that the rest of us suckers don’t.

Women Can Do Everything Men Can Do— but in Heels, and with Heels

---

For the many women talked down to at Home Depot, Dick’s, etc. let me tell you this story.

Years ago I went to Home Depot with my sister. She was wearing church clothes and high heeled dress boots, and walked through that store like she owned it: quickly, business-like, confident smile, head up, shoulders back. Politely but firmly dismissed an inquiry of if she needed help (“I know exactly where it is, thanks”). She bought this huge sheet of some dry wall stuff . . . I really have no clue what it was. I do know it was almost as long as her Malibu. She carried it by herself, laughing off anyone’s offers of help.

We exited that store with men staring after her in amazed, dawning respect due to how much knowledge she had.

BUT.
The best part:

We get out into the parking lot where my sister partially leans the sheet against her car and tells me “I always wear these boots when getting this because” WHAM—she slams her boot at it and it breaks cleanly apart—“it’s the best way I’ve found to break this board into pieces that will fit into your car without wrecking it.”

My sister majored in Historic Preservation and is currently working in her field. She specializes in metals.

Does a Merry Christmas Have To Be Merry?

So it’s Christmas. That time of year when you’re supposed to be thankful and joyful. But what if you’re not?

Maybe you’re the type of person who can find what you’re grateful for, even in the midst of utter ingratitude. If you can do that, good, do it. If you can feel thankful for the time you had with someone, even amidst your grief and anger that that was all the time you got, then you’re in good shape.

Then again, maybe you can’t.

And I think that’s ok.

It’s ok if you’re not filled with joy and good cheer, but if you let yourself drown in the negative emotions, it’s not going to help (in my experience at least). There are, of course, different things you can do. Focus on the present during festivities, and set aside time before and after to grieve. Or just hold onto the good memories and your knowledge. How would so-and-so have responded to your aunt’s tirade just now? Or your uncle’s joke?

If you can’t force yourself into joy, don’t. It will make the wounds fester and stew, bubbling underneath the lid until it can no longer be contained, at which point it bursts and burns everyone around it, including you. If you’re not happy, admit it to yourself. And then remember when you were happy, what made you happy. Allow yourself to step back and look around yourself with clarity. Remember what made you happy and look for the seeds of happiness around you. Acknowledge the potential for happiness, both lost and present.

Remember that you and they were happy once. Remember what made them happy and what they would have been like during the festivities around you.

Aim for acceptance and peace, or melancholy happiness. Be true to the grief and even the anger you feel. But don’t be consumed by it.

There’s a lot out there about how to find something to be grateful for. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing out there that addresses what to do when you simply can’t be grateful, even for the small things. Before you can feel grateful, you need to be open to the possibility. You need to see your situation clearly and work through the negative emotions before you can fertilize the seeds of gratefulness.

Everyone grieves differently, everyone celebrates differently. Instead of focusing on what people are telling you to do and how you should feel, and how you may not be able to do or feel those things, focus on how you feel and want to feel. Figure out what you need to be able to find light in the darkness. For some people it’s as simple as flipping the switch; for others wax for a candle must be made first, then something for the wick must be found, and finally they need a way to light it.

If you need some alone time, find a way to have it, without being disturbed by family or disturbing them.

If you need to think about them, do so. If you need to talk about them but have no one to talk to, have a running commentary in your head. “That would have made her laugh. That would have made him wink.” Focus on them as they were when they were alive and happy and full of potential.

Don’t let your anger at circumstance seep into how you feel about your family and friends, who may be happy. It’s not their fault they’re happy. They’re allowed to have their joy just as you’re allowed your grief. Use the positivity around you to remind yourself that it is not a betrayal for you to be happy, and to remember their joy and love.

Being part of the festivities doesn’t mean you need to act as you normally would. It means you have to be present. If you usually talk a lot and you’re quieter this time around, then just make sure you’re listening and watching and sitting there with everyone. Feel connected to them even as you feel you are distant. In my experience, family likes to talk. Don’t force yourself to tell jokes and stories, leave that to them and laugh when something is funny, or just smile. If you can’t bring yourself to talk to them, pour them some more wine or juice, pat their shoulder. Verbal messages certainly aren’t everything.

If you need to cry or scream, excuse yourself to the bathroom or sneak into your room and bury your face in your pillow. Let it out. And then, let it go. Wash your face and smooth your clothes and recall their smiles and how alive they were. Would they want you in here grieving alone? From what I know, the answer is no. They don’t. So hold onto that. Use your love for them and their love for you to be the ruling voice. Go back to your family and just be there. Allow those you have lost to be there with you.

You miss them, and keeping them away may just widen their absence. So embrace them, bring them in and let them take part not in the grieving, but in the joyous festivities.

There are more types of happiness than elation, just as there are more types of love than the carnal. Don’t pretend to feel what you don’t, be what you’re not. Find what you can be and search for the love and happiness and thankfulness that are in your capacity. And then, just exist. Allow peace, if only for now.

In this society, I often feel there’s no place for grief. And so we don’t know how to deal with it as a society, or family. Grief is not just tears and anger, it’s also love and even joy. Yes, joy. You grieve because you felt joy with them, love with them, anger with and at them. We can’t just weep and then stop thinking about them. That’s not how you begin to heal.

You heal by remembering how much you loved them and how much they loved you. You accept that they’d want you to be happy. You confront who they were and what they did in the time, however short or long, that they had.

They were so much more than tears, so don’t limit them to anguish and fury. Don’t portray them to yourself only as lost, and don’t make them perfect. They weren’t. They made you angry or made you cry. That doesn’t diminish them. It only allows them to occupy the space they held in life, instead of some single-dimension illusion.

Forgiving does not mean that the situation was right. It does not mean accepting someone’s sins or crimes as “okay.” It means moving on. Grief is the same. It’s not ok that they died, it’s not ok when people tell you “it was God’s plan” or “meant to be.”

“Life’s not fair.” We hear that all the time, and to me I’ve always felt it was said to excuse something. Life’s not fair, that’s the fact, so you can’t get worked up about murder and racism and everything that’s unfair about our world. But that’s not true. It’s not an excuse or a reason. It’s a fact. If life’s not fair then we should change what we can about this reality of ours where things are not fair. Life’s not fair doesn’t make it ok that some people die absurd, meaningless, arbitrary deaths. Life’s not fair does not equal acceptance and complacency.

It’s not fair, and it’s not ok. But it is fact. And sometimes there’s no changing that fact. You can’t bring back the dead, nor should you. That is a fact that you need to learn to live with, just as we learn to live with facts like a debilitating injury and that the world’s not perfect, that no one, not even your parents and idols, are perfect.

It’s Christmas and they’re gone and not coming back, and you need to face that. You need to live with that.

But it’s ok to be sad. It’s ok to not be able to fake it through.
It’s also ok for you to be happy or at peace.

Whatever holiday you practice, I hope it is a time of healing for you. I hope you manage to have some degree of joy and peace and rest.

Trashy Rat-Dragon

My life plan:
I am a failure as an adult.
Thus
I will live in a decrepit apartment full of empty ramen cups and wrappers strewn everywhere
Hair wild and tangled and clothes unwashed and stained
I will live like a rat
And try to evade the landlord asking for money
And get in debt for not paying taxes correctly
And I’ll end up hoarding my pile of trash
Cause it’s all I have that no one will take from me
And thus, I will be a trashy rat-dragon
And hiss at people
And finally run off to Antarctica and go wild
Until it finishes melting
And I will stay with it and drown in the sea like a captain going down with his ship
And my life will be meaningless and go unremembered
But damn if I didn’t at least stay with my goddamn ship
And flip the bird at society and global warming and humanity
And it was nothing and it was mine and it was glorious.

 

A quick sketch for your viewing pleasure:

Rust in a fifteen-year-old car

“Whhhaaaaaggghhttt?” I gasp most grotesquely. But can one blame any seeping ugliness? When confronted by such monstrous stupidity? For how can one maintain a clever and beautiful appearance in front of such a comment? RUST, in a fifteen-year-old car? REALLY!? How utterly bizarre! How intrinsically unbelievable! Merely inconceivable!

Further, to expect that when one hits a 15-year-old car, that one might destroy parts that have rust and indeed, that one might do more damage than one might expect to do to an elegant, brand-new vehicle in its prime, why that’s preposterous!

Thus, one can see why even one such as I might be driven to flailing arms and agape mouth then finally even to a choking, drooling, gasping demand of a word. And as I inform you of this matter, the very same abhorrent beast of a word arises in my throat like vile bile:
“Whhhaaaaaaggghhhhth?”

Indeed, it may have come to pass that this event has transformed me into a hideous banshee of sorts. Certainly my hair has grown uneven and thin as I yank on it mercilessly, and my eyes quite possibly are staring madly around the room even now—wide and gleaming. In fact, I even believe I have developed quite the stoop, as every time I go to stand straight I crumple back into a fetal position, muscles cramping with the desire to just go to bed.

It is only a matter of time then, before I complete my hideous transmutation into something altogether so human as to be inhuman.

Soon now you will hear whispers of “whhaagghttthh?” lurking at your window on starless nights. You will see a hulking, staring figure lurching past the door in the darkest hours, grasping madly at air. At times the grotesque murmur-growl-screech of a “whhhaaaguregiytttt?” will become a harrowing maniacal screech of laughter, rising and halting with each gasp of “rust, rust on a 15-year-old car!”

You may leave for work too early, and find a terrible form hunched over your car, stroking its front bumper while muttering nonsensical phrases about rust damage and “the-idiot-who-couldn’t-drive” with occasional snarls of “tore off my bumper, he did!”

At these moments, retreat, I beseech you.
Don’t tempt the danger but remove yourself from sight until the monstrous car-rust banshee moves on.

Ah! This is the only caution I can give you!
For I fear it has become too late for me! The hour is at hand! Damnation is upon me.
Save yourself, dear reader, and remember:
beware the car-rust banshee.

 

Embarrassment is universal

So my friend told me that one of the terms for a group of pandas is “embarrassment,” which of course makes me wonder just how they embarrassed themselves in order to achieve that.

As a quick aside, notice how “embarrassment” contains the word “ass?” Perhaps they made an “ass” of themselves, but that would imply they were jerks, and obviously as they’re so cute, pandas would never resort to such a thing.

A few minutes before I was told this, we had seen one of the cutest things in existence: a squirrel swimming across the river. It was having a hard time, its paws really working and head determinedly held just, and I mean just, above the surface. We politely stopped our kayak so as to give him space and coo over him.

The squirrel reached some branches in the river near the other side. He pulled himself up on one and then did a truly spectacular belly flop onto the next. That was not the embarrassing thing.

The embarrassing thing was that next he made a leap for a low-hanging tree branch, but seemed to have misjudged the weight of his drenched coat, as his paw may have grabbed it briefly, but he fell right back into the river. This, I’m sure was very embarrassing.

Ah, some of you don’t believe animals can feel embarrassment, perhaps.

Well, we can only tell by what an animal communicates, so first we must answer if animals can communicate.

The definition of communication offered in A First Look at Communication Theory by Em Griffin, Andrew Ledbetter, and Glenn Sparks is that “Communication is the relational process of creating and interpreting messages that elicit a response.”

Now, I would say Gigi, one of many cats I have petsat, clearly communicates embarrassment to me. For though she’s, generally, an elegant and agile cat, sometimes, she slips. She likes attention, and I mean really likes. As in, she cries if I go to the bathroom and close the door on her, and cries if I walk in the next room and she didn’t see me leave. She must be with you at all times, and likes you to be watching and petting and talking to her.

So when she slips while, say, walking along the couch, she immediately looks around to see if I was watching. Obviously, I was since I saw. She then immediately turns away from me with her head down and slouches her shoulders (though cats don’t really have them . . . you know what I mean though), and usually turns in a few half circles as if she wants to face me but can’t bring herself to. If I look away she moves off her perch and leaps onto something in front of me, very elegantly. But if I keep watching she keeps doing those half circles, unsure how to escape my notice and redeem herself. Obviously she is trying to get me to look away so she can get down, free from further embarrassment, and come over to redeem herself on a different perch.

Thus, I would argue, that yes, of course animals can feel embarrassment, and they do communicate it.

Anyway, I did not originally intend to get into a communications argument. (I just saw an opportune moment.)

The point is . . .

I belong in an embarrassment of pandas. I am a constant hot mess. With my friend earlier my sleeve caught on a sign and it fell to the ground with a crash in the otherwise quiet store. Me. All the time. Literally.

If I escape into an embarrassment of pandas, then we can all be embarrassing together. This must be why pandas group together: solidarity and camaraderie in embarrassment. And then, since they’re all cute, maybe people will just assume I must be cute too.

Wait for me, comrades, I’m coming to you!
. . . as soon as I find out where the nearest zoo with a panda or two is.

(When I settle into my new home, any of you who feel the need to join the embarrassment I will certainly be part of may contact me for my new address.)

A Successful Adulting

Here’s an easy hack to give others the impression that you are a successful adultier adult:

First: procure raw chicken.
Second: get the sugary cereal you’ve been craving that you basically subsist on since cereal is so darn easy to prepare.

Now a letter from a real-life user of this hack:

Dear reader, I waltzed through that store with swaggering sureness and procured not only a box of Cocoa Pebbles, but a box of Fruity ones as well.

For you see, when one is buying raw chicken, others know that that chicken must be cooked. And as it is in your possession, it stands to reason that you are the cook. Thus, having proved my adulthood (for the ability to cook food is inherently tied to adulthood), I further secured it by ensuring the raw chicken was in plain view, and that the truth of the matter, while also in plain view, was somewhat obscured. 

Thank you so much for your hack!
A not-actor who was trained extensively for their appearance in this ad. . . .
I-I mean, George.

In plain English? Make sure the raw chicken is on top of the cereal boxes.
(And as the cereal is in a box and the chicken is packaged and then was put in one of those plastic bags for veggies and fruits, it is perfectly sanitary. And the plastic bag can be reused for multiple things, like maybe screaming into when trying to figure out your taxes.)

As long as that evidence of an able, well adjusted, strongly-functioning adult is on top, other adults will feel well-justified in letting their eyes slid on past all contrary evidence.

This is how we have been able to, pardon my language, “b.s.” our way through adulthood, and why such a small percentage of society is actually aware that there are new categories of adults. We who are “b.s.-ing” our way are societally accepted as adults, yet in truth knowing how ill-prepared we are, have dubbed those adults who actually know what they’re about “adultier” adults.

It is a great dilemma, you see, how little recognition the ill-preparedness of younger adults receives. For we, having received little to no practical lessons in how to survive (let alone succeed) in the truly fell-flat-on-its-face-and-still-struggling-to-get-up society we are entering upon, have had no choice but to fake it.

To admit the false nature of our adulthood to the “adultiers” would be to undermine ourselves and thus ensure our utter final, spectacular failing. Thus, we continue the ploy and the problem persists.

BUT.
Have no fear!

For with such hacking tips as above, we fakers are sharing our secrets of marginal success with those of you who are now embarking on the journey!

Stay tuned for more mundane advice.

Note: Any food that requires a significant amount of preparation (as in: not simply microwavable) can replace the use of chicken.