Cutting the Catatonic Fluff

Not sure what’s worse. Actually feeling or feeling catatonic. I mean, both are technical “feelings” but one involves literally FEELING. I “feel” 100% catatonic tonight. I have a HUGE decision weighing on me right now & ZERO clue of how the fuck to solve it.

I can ask my most trusted resources, type in 923847298347 various phrases into google, stare at each star in the sky to guide me & pray until my knees bleed but the truth of the matter is that this is something for which NOBODY knows any answers!

All I want to know is where it’s safe to live, where we should “pitch our tent” & where we will be happiest.

WHY IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK??

Here we were in our little utopia. SO happy. SO safe. SO content. Yeah, no. Nope. Not so much. Turns out that the “purist” resource available to all of us American’s in this beautiful country just so happens to be what is potentially resulting in destroying our precious community where I SWORE our lives were surrounded by a beautiful bubble.

I fully envisioned my little girl walking down our front stairway meeting her nervous date standing at the entrance of our front doorway.

Clearly, ZERO plans to move. I have, perhaps what some may call PTSD when it comes to moving. By the time I was 30, I had moved 19 times. NINETEEN. I HATED EVERY SPECK OF MOVING. Ironically, I was damn good at it. I can move like nobody’s business. Talk about having shit down to a science!

What would have been my 20th move would have been my late Chapman’s DREAM of a move. He would have FINALLY experienced his DREAM of a yard, his HEAVENLY sunning spot & barely a stair to prohibit him from his paws touching the grass from the hardwoods. He passed 30 days before our official move date. I miss that beautiful creature every single day.

Let’s fast forward to today. The moving thing rears its ugly head. Again. This time it’s pretty much a “must”.

NOT due to a job. NOT due to a reasonable relocation. Simply due to no choice.

Moving & Must. Especially in the same sentence. Shit.

If anyone has been wondering where this Mama has been living…its under a moving box. Or truck. Or feeling sorry for myself.

BIG GIRL PANTS…..*

Let’s do this, bitches.

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