Let me start by saying, my energy is rising and I am feeling better! I hate to be the person who is like fuck the holidays, but, fuck the holidays. I am not big on the “Hallmark Holidays” nor making the important ones resemble the like. I think gifts should be given when you think of someone, because you thought of someone, not because there is a date on the calendar every year that tells you to. It is ridiculous, it is not love, and it takes away from just that. So many people go out and just buy shit to make up for all the things they didn’t give or do throughout the entire fucking year, I cannot with that. It is about time for me, quality time, and quality conversations. That too applies to every day of the year. If you give me neither, please don’t give me anything else except the pleasure of listening to “Messy” by Lola Young…particularly the line “I pull a Britney [sic] every other week”. I am so thankful there is a term named after me. It is about time. Now you too can say you “pulled a Brit[t]ney” and everyone will be like, ahhhhh shitttt, it’s aight, it’s 2025, we all be pulling Britt Britts! At least that is how it goes down and sounds in my head. A “Britt Britt” is the PG version of pulling a full-on “Britney,” she was doomed when her parents decided to misspell her name. Thankfully mine did not. 

Ok, so the holidays are over and my skin is dry as fuck. I managed not to put on any physical weight and I am slowly but surely shedding some heavy emotional weight. Half of my sense of humor is gone, but that means I am only a little funnier than the average person. I am tired. I hate saying I am old because I am not, but there are some things where I say, I am too old for this shit. I was born with an 89-year-old mindset, a 273-year-old soul, the heart of a child, my body is 37, and in the end, my tolerance is 0. I thought my grandma had no tolerance for me too, but it turns out she is a total fan of me. On our last visit, I had some energy I needed to get out so I belted out notes like I knew what I was doing. She sat in the sunlight, still in the hospital gown they put her in instead of clothing because she was not having a good day. We just bought her Reeses Peanut Butter Cups and a Butterfinger (it’s genetic) and she was chowing down, closing her eyes after each bite, and falling asleep (it’s genetic). I started hitting notes and doing this thing with my hand/fingers like I was a professional. She joined in. And after, I asked, “Fuckkkk! Don’t you just feel better now?” She answered by asking me what her room number was (it’s not genetic), and so I answered to which she then replied, “Ok, well can you take me there?” (Burnnnn. It’s genetic). And so I did, but not before singing the first 30 seconds of  “Circle of Life” by Carmen Twillie and Lebo M. because I am proficient in Zulu after singing this song daily for the last 30 years. I asked her if I was making her mad with my fingers crossed behind my back, pushing her wheel chair with my stomach. She started laughing and told me I make her happy and she likes the song…(it’s genetic), we both play a good game.

I got upset with my sons last week. I would say “really”, but me getting upset about something entails me saying “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCKITY FUCK FUCKKKKKK” followed by a rant and then over it and laughing. Unless I am over you. Well, they were not over it, nor over me. At least, Otis was not. Later while at dinner, he just looked across the table at me like he had been holding in seawater for the last couple of hours and was about to puke. I notice everything, and sometimes I let it go, but not normally especially if it is my sons that I notice something in. So, naturally, I said, “Lord! What is that face? We good?” Something like that. Probably nothing like that. But something-ish, and it got the job done. The conversation was started and that is what matters. At one point, he and his twin looked at each other and start bonding over some bullshit. It is almost always over something “hilarious” to do with me. And this time was no different. They both wrapped up their little powwow and chose one of them to deliver the content and the other was his solid fucking backup. “When you get mad you sound country.” This led to them reenacting the disagreement we had earlier playing both them and me, which then led to this whole twin chest bump session. I pretended it was news to me that I got an accent, but it was not news to me, I have been told before you little seawater sucker! I love it when they bond, even under circumstances like this, maybe especially so, because as I said, quality time, quality conversations. Talking about me is always a good choice. Tell me more, son. 

I know when to put my foot down. With my children and with people. My children are people, I just mean, normal everyday people. My children are the little souls God gave me with complete confidence and made me step up to the plate because if my name is on something, I want it to be good. These handsome boys got my name all over their little selves, but they better not ever be pulling a “Britt Britt.” I am always wanting to do better for them, and they are certainly better than me already. I give a lot. A lot a lot. Likely more than I should in some situations, but always just enough for me to feel comfortable and at peace when I decide to draw the line of “no more.” I love hard. I play hard. My words can be either. My heart is soft. Just like Brad. Ew. Brad is awful. I am not. But I have seen some awful shit that reminds me of when I was younger. Men who wait for a woman to arrive and talking to other women before she does, exchanging contact information, and then treating the woman who arrives later like a friend to ensure the onlookers from conversations of the recent past remain interested in the near future. Sir, try just being present, “namaste, motherfucker!” Confusing situations, confused men, and women who look confused but surely are not when they cancel out all of the noise these men put in their ears. Ladies, the cold weather finally arrived in Texas, put them ear muffs on and walk on. These are not your children, these are someone else’s grown-ass children. If they look like they drank seawater, let them learn to spit it out, and you no longer swallow…then come and dance with me. I am more fun anyway. I promise. Wait til my country accent and Zulu comes out.