I love music.
And I love Shazam.
I heard a fragment of this song in the background of a reel – and I went, holy shit, what song is that? I know that song.
It’s Paramore, of course. It’s “Ain’t It Fun”. The up-beat, poppy, juxtaposition of dark lyrics over catchy melodies, and a fist-in-the-air anthem for all of us who are staring down the inevitability of growing up. “Don’t go crying to your Mama, cause you’re on your own in the real world.” Indeed, Hayley. Indeed.
I have been successfully putting out coffee posts every morning on my 365 project this year. The New Year’s Eve quote goes (and it’s been attributed to a dozen different people): “Tomorrow is the first page of your 365 page book. Make it a good one.” And I took that seriously. I thought – what better way to journal, and make myself accountable, than posting 365 microblogs each morning. Grab a coffee, and spill my thoughts.
http://www.instagram.com/justhandlewithcare
And so, I have been.
And if on Instagram I’m spilling my thoughts, then I suppose I can fire up this site and spill my guts. Cause there’s lots to say.
I think about journaling it out on this site a lot. I think about it a lot. I have read, watched, been inspired by dozens (if not hundreds) of other bloggers, who invest their time and their lives into putting their thoughts into readable action in an effort to a: get it out, and (probably) b: find likeability, commonality with others. I assume that putting it on a website, versus in a traditional diary journal is a way to tie the thread of “something in common” with the big outside world.
Where you’re from
You might be the one who’s runnin’ things
Well, you could ring anybody’s bell and get what you want
You see, it’s easy to ignore trouble
When you’re livin’ in a bubble
I’m a week post-op from an appendectomy surgery, where they also took out my right ovary and right fallopian tube. My appendix ruptured back in June of 2022, and the initial course of action was to stave off surgery by going the antibiotics route. A third trip back to the ER (and subsequent admission) showed that not only had I perforated the appendix, I also simultaneously managed to rupture an ovarian cyst on the right side. I was going for gold in the pain department. And despite my protests that my pain was not caused by an STD, or anything of that nature (which, of course, was confirmed by an STD panel and bloodwork), the doctors and surgeons concluded that I was producing hemorrhaging cysts from my right ovary, and the pain was exacerbated by “chronic appendicitis” (which I vehemently deny is an actual diagnosis, when we know the traditional course of action is to fucking take out the appendix and not make a person wait a goddamn year). Regardless, the whole shablam is done and now I’m in recovery mode. It’s been a week, and I’m off all forms of pain meds (oh, what am I talking about? they prescribed some gnarly shit, and I couldn’t even get the script filled because I watch too many medical dramas. So I went the extra strength Tylenol route and called it a day). Two extra strength tylenols every four hours, with a Tylenol 1 before bed. Today marks the first day that I haven’t taken anything. So I’m in the right mind, but disappointed that my summer has been shanked by post-op orders (no lifting anything over 10lbs for two weeks, more than 40 for an additional 4). They’ve also recommended no swimming in lakes or pools for six weeks, and avoiding strenuous exercise. I’m out of Derby. Out of Pole Fitness. My next foray into working out probably won’t be until at least September. That’s a bummer summer.
But it gives me time to write again. Read again. Knit again? Fuck, maybe. Work on my book again. Paint again. Reevaluate my time again.
And that brings me here. The objective is to get one of these mofos out a week. Seems lofty, given all I do to keep myself busy. The least I can do is try, for at least the summer.
Tonight, I’m pouring over the adage “never meet your heroes”. I thought this was such a shitty sentiment for so long. I mean, how can you be let down by the people you worship the most. And yet, here I am feeling that exact way. Now, while the specifics are not important, and who, or what, it was that I had built the pedestal for are not details I’m prepared to reveal, I’ll simply say that this sentiment sucks. And not for the reasons I had initially concocted. But because it’s accurate. And I’m feeling super let down and disappointed. When we allow ourselves to put these things, people, places, heroes, so high in the goddamn sky, we’re risking it all when we reach out to the touch the sun. And sometimes, it can mean getting burned or blinded by the light. For me, I suppose, it was a little of both. I’m still reeling from that. It’s a life lesson I’ve learned. It means two things – 1. don’t go making statues of people who, at the end of the day, are still just people and 2. I guess you really can teach old dogs new tricks. I’m a life-long learner.
A disappointed one, but a learner none-the-less. The message here is to just not allow someone, somebody, some people make you feel inferior. Stop building golden statues. Being inspired by someone and idolizing someone are two entirely different things. Choose the former. The latter, as mentioned, sucks.
Ain’t it fun
Livin’ in the real world?
Ain’t it good
Bein’ all alone?
Ain’t it good to be on your own? (Oh-oh-oh)
Ain’t it fun you can’t count on no one? (Oh-oh-oh)
Ain’t it good to be on your own? (Ah-ah-ah)
Ain’t it fun you can’t count on no one? (Ah-ah-ah)
Ain’t it fun
Livin’ in the real world?
There’s a meme that’s been traveling around for the better part of the last decade. It’s the one of a hundred tabs opened simultaneously in a browser. The caption is something of the likes of “my brain at any given time”. And that’s exactly where I am. Always and anytime. I am thinking, processing, wondering. Even now, I’m scanning my brain for Barbie tickets, Wordle tomorrow morning, finally besting the Geography quiz I’ve been playing in Sporcle (I can finally name 197 countries in the world in 15 minutes, despite the quiz being so old, that there are now only formally 195). I’m also thinking ahead to my accounting for my small business, wondering how I can start narrating audio books, and what I’ll talk about on my show tomorrow. That, mingled with my teenager’s multitude of appointments yet to be booked (hooray for single parenthood, and getting all the reminders at once – your kid is due for an eye appointment, dentist appointment, etc.), plus contemplating a trip to NYC in August. My head is a continual rat race.
I’m getting tired.
We shirked good advice and headed out to see Pitbull last minute last night. While going to shows and festivals is always a good time, a week post-op was really pushing it. I have absolutely zero regrets over the tequila, the walk, the singing along to “Fireball”, but that doesn’t mean my body isn’t begging me for some Tylenol, and I’m too stubborn to relent. My eyes are heavy. I slept something like four hours this afternoon on one of those wake-up-what-year-is-it naps. And after a patio date with my teen, post-driver training with her on my 5-speed (rest in peace, my clutch), I’m thinking of packing it in in favour of getting rested enough to conquer Monday tomorrow.
Typically, with these coffee posts I’ve been talking about, I leave with some feel-good message, or dope quote I’ve read, or some sentiment I’m choosing to share that I hope will resonate with you, Good Reader.
I don’t know if I’ve got anything killer to send along tonight, that could fashion as a weekly takeaway.
Ah, I know. A dual summation of the blog, and what it sparked it.
In “Ain’t It Fun”, Paramore sings: “You’re not the big fish in the pond no more. You’re what they’re feeding on.” Earlier, I had said “never meet your heroes”. You could be someone’s hero. You could be the person in that story. You could be the one inspiring someone else. And they could be building a bridge to Babylon just to spend a few precious moments with you. Don’t take that for granted. Don’t be fooled into thinking you’re a big fish in a small pond. You’re just another fish. You’re just in the same upstream as the rest of us. So when someone wants to meet you, to step into the light they’ve shone on you, make space. Let them in. There’s no greater gift in the world then someone who likens their weirdness to yours, and wants nothing more than to tell you they’re thrilled to be on the same plane, in the same dimension, in the same wormhole as you.
“Never meet your heroes.” Let’s stop making this true.
Ain’t it fun, living in the real world.
-c xx
CARE HUMPHRIES 