Every so often, vulnerability in writing swirls together with a checked-out, ennui kind of feeling. It’s a blizzard. I’m less interested in the why and more interested in getting over it—jumping past it, shimmying into a more comfortable spot.
Something about dreaming of this weekend’s getaway to an Airbnb in South Carolina put a little pep in me. The location is spectacular—minutes away from restaurants that look genuinely delicious and sights I might snoop around, like the Confederate Soldiers’ Home Historical Monument… or, more likely, Cat Daddy’s Cat Café. Evelyn will love that.
This trip started because of a painting I saw on TikTok. The happy accident that the artist was selling it, that it was in my price range, a three-hour drive away, and in an area I’ve been wanting to visit made the stars align in a way I couldn’t ignore. Even better—it’s my birthday tomorrow, which means I get to call it a present to myself. I’m just as excited to share Linda’s work with you once the art is safely in my mitts.
Forty-four years tomorrow, eh? Not too shabby. I say bring ’em on. I kicked 43’s ass and plan to keep that snowball rolling downhill into something respectably massive.
For now, it’s hang-out-with-my-man time—snuggling up and watching Pluribus. It’s the season finale, so I actually have to pay attention.
Going On 40 