Birthday Suit
There's a lot happening for me right now. I've been teasing apart questions about my ethnicity. I'm questioning my purpose and examining my validity as a being on this planet. I'm craving freedom and creativity after years in a box wallpapered in the broad strokes of all kinds of coercions I never even knew I was using.
Upon these broad strokes lay decades of garlands fabricated from crushed beer cans. Every so often a dusting of white powders and thick smoke festively obscure the air. Strange fungi with cryptic messages grow from the dank corners. When the door opens on this solo female menagerie, I run so far and so fast adrenaline darkens the corner of my vision. I see stars, apparitions, and if I don't think too hard, the future.
Despite little change in my diet or exercise routine, I'm losing my waist and morphing into a tube-like shape. A tube stuffed so full of ground up thoughts, questions, experiences and finely curated junque that if you threw me on a spit, vegans around the globe would float over on the aroma, just for a drop of my near perfectly seasoned juices.
In other words, I'm turning 46.
While I've been through many phases of blind celebration (reference years 25 through 38), I've never been particularly good at celebrating MYSELF. Not to be confused with celebrating by-myself, at which I'm really remarkably good. In fact, birthdays have largely sent me down a very different kind black hole. One that tumbled me around and sucked the breath right out of me with questions like, 'Why am I so unloveable?', 'Who cares for me?', 'What have I achieved in this life?' and most importantly, 'Where is my fucking money cake?'
The answers to these questions race around in the wind and adrenaline fueled conclusions of the little tube running in sneakers, along an avenue near you. But, it's time to put those questions to rest for a bit. In fact, I'm putting aside a lot of the usual exertions and exercises that have occupied me in the past. Ones that, metaphorically speaking, could have been viewed as ways to fit in, look pretty, have shapely legs and to not take up too much space. But I seem to have reached a point where fitting in is no longer an option, just as not taking up too much space has been removed from the menu. And so I've decided, this month will be a month of less blending and more bouncing.
I've selected a series of suits that I feel reflect my true essence at this time, and I intend to wear them, despite November being the dreary, inhospitable, uninspiring month that delivered me into your company. It is my hope that these suits will not just shock and dismay the general public, but will help me skip the bit where the hero does small acts of service, slowly gets recognized and happens to find an outrageous outfit in which to diligently crush evil while simultaneously protecting his/ her/ their workaday, repetitive "real" life from exposure. No. I'm skipping straight to outfits.
I don't know what my ideal outcome is, in this scheme. We all know I'm pretty deeply entrenched in helping others find joy in their daily grind by tirelessly creating serotonin boosting confections and reasonably entertaining digital content free of charge. And I already fly all the time in my dreams. Perhaps these dreams of flight will take hold and shuttle me into a reality where money cakes and hoards of well wishers really do come true. Perhaps... they already have.
As well, I've adopted a platform on which to run as candidate for your personal average-hero, be it virtual or actual. Truthfully, I don't mind either way, I take my likes where I can get them. I will be promoting:
More booty bouncing. My gains should be used for good, not evil. Rather than holding it all together, I'm just gonna let it all hang out. And anyone who sees this as an invitation to shake a tube at me, will find me ready to shake my tube right back at you. And it might not be pretty. You've been warned.
I'm advocating for a government mandated, paid reading week for grown adults. A full week set aside for reading books, researching your ancestry, honing a skill like fermenting, farming or making mischief (or loosely defined art in the form of metamodern websites, that could make money-in lieu of gainful employment).*
I'd also subsidize large chunks of time staring at things besides screens, such as the sky, reading the stars or the wall.. perhaps considering how we got from coins in cakes to wondering if I have any acquaintances (because my friend list is a definite no) who understand cryptocurrency enough, and are benevolent and creative enough to somehow put Bitcoin in my cake.
That's all I've got so far.
To fund this campaign, I'm launching my long awaited, much anticipated clothing line! It only has one item. But maybe it will have broad appeal. *Check it out: https://amberstoby.wixsite.com/zerolikes
For those who want to take issue with my plan, there is line-up. You may queue. The airing of grievances will be heard on an ongoing basis, when I'm not occupied with less pressing things. Which, as you can see, is never.
So if you happen to see me this month, be forewarned. I'm feeling rather fancy. "I'm getting better", as Jeff Goldblum quipped in The Fly, as he slowly morphed into one of the most disgusting insects in existence. The fly, a creature that regurgitates it's own special sauce onto whatever gives it sustenance in order make things more digestible; a peculiarity I'm finding easier and easier to understand.
And finally, I am just as likely to burst into flames as all the other times you've seen me - but less because of repressed rage and more because I'm wearing lots of Lycra and I'm running hot.
TTFN, Amber
There are times when all the world's asleep The questions run too deep For such a simple man Won't you please, please tell me what we've learned I know it sounds absurd Please tell me who I am
The Logical Song: Roger Hodgson