I feel somehow cheated by my depression. No, not out of “living a full life” or “having fun” or even “being happy,” none of that stupid feely bullshit.

I feel cheated because, like every January that I sink into this pit, I don’t get any of the cool depression critters following me around.

Sure, I have the omnipresent sadness, but do I have a cartoon raincloud following me as I listlessly select some apples at the grocery store? NO. No, Pranksters, I do not.

As much as I’ve tried, I don’t have that wind-up blonde lady toy either. You’d think, with as bone-crushing and soul sucking as it is, I’d probably be at LEAST entitled to that. A wind-up toy in exchange your soul? Seems fair.

I don’t, as much as it pains me to admit this, even have that chokey fuzzy bathrobe, either. I’m not partial to bathrobes, myself, so it’s not a huge loss, but that’s what the commercials say happens when I barely have the energy to slog outta bed and brush my teefers. SO WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT BATHROBE TO CHOKE ME?

But what really fucking pisses me off is that I do not have the Abilify black hole to follow me. I could use a constant companion, like a black blob, to hang out with me while I’m at the doctors, or laying in bed after a nightmare. I had real plans for having him be my BFF. We’d go everywhere together. He’d fetch me soda while I laid on the couch, hating life. He’d rub my feet and offer me pedicures while I sobbed about nothing at all. And what do I have?

FUCK NOTHING.

I haven’t seen hide nor fucking hair of that black blob since the depression hit.

I’m starting to think that we’re NOT BFF after all. That depression doesn’t come with a cool bathrobe that chokes you to death or a wind-up toy, or even a black blob.

I demand a recount, depression. That’s fucking bullshit.

It’s clear that I’m not very smart.

Shit, I got myself drunk on almond extract for weeks before I realized that I was, in fact, doing so. I regularly walk into walls. I’m hopelessly convinced that I’m going to live my life married to men from television. I write a blog on the Internet.

But I do understand some things – not many, but still.

What follows is a list of things that continue to baffle me – keep me up all night, tossing and turning as I try to comprehend them.

0) Why Jimmy Wales didn’t realize that putting a picture of his minions directly under the title of the page was a bad fucking idea.

See also:

1) Why anyone still uses Internet Explorer.

1) Why Donald Trump’s hair doesn’t have it’s own reality show. I’d watch that shit.

2) Why The Fresh Beat Band ditched the cute redhead and replaced her with another not-as-cute redhead like kids are too stupid to notice that they are not the same person.

3) MySpace. It’s as bad as saying you still use your Friendster account. PS. this is mine: Myspace.com/hotterthanyourwife

5) Why are sausage links so much tastier than sausage patties?

8 ) Why is the word “patty” so vomit-inducing?

13) Why was the Homeland season finale so lackluster?

21) How did Glee go from being a fresh, snarky show to a very short LifeTime Movie of the Week?

34) Why do people walk around with their blue douche headsets in all of the time?

55) How orange can be both a color and a flavor while purple cannot. Purple should be a flavor, dammit!

89) Whatever happened to that gigantic Kool-Aid pitcher who was all, “OOOOOH YEAH?” Sidebar: I think I’m gonna be him for Halloween next year.

144) Why disco went out of style. Disco is for LIFE.

Okay, so Pranksters, your turn: what don’t YOU understand?

This part of year is always hardest for me.

I’d like to say I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, mostly because of the wicked acronym, but I don’t. My garden variety, un-cool acronymed depression mixes with the PTSD (pesticides and toxic substances division?) in a nice soupy paste of unhappiness.

Christmas, no matter how I try to play it off, is hard. Sure, I find joy in watching my children scamper about, ripping open presents and squealing in surprise at what lies beneath – that part is tops. New Years Eve almost always finds me near-tears for no fucking reason the whole day, until I wake on January 1, and feel, well, lighter. The elephant sitting squarely upon my chest is gone, as are the fifty pound weights attached to my neck.

I don’t know why this happens to me. But it does – every year.

After the holidays pass, and I am finally able to breathe again, it is time for my daughter’s birthday. My daughter. My daughter who will be three this year, and has not once had the birthday party I’ve wanted to give her. It is my fault – January 1, the anxiety takes over and I’m barely able to leave the house. I become a slave to it – the thoughts it gives me, “you’ve lost all your friends,” “no one will come to her party,” “you’re weak – you should be able to do it.”

Those thoughts beat at me until I relent, deciding upon a “quiet family party,” playing it off like that’s all I’ve actually wanted to do, anyway. I mean, she won’t remember it anyway, so why bother? She’s only (insert young age here).

What they – you – don’t know is that it’s not by choice. It’s never been a choice. If I could choose, it would be her birthday tomorrow, I could skip the month of January, only to wake up on January 28 to a perfectly executed party attended by those whom I love and who love me too (short list as it may be).

I decided, as I always do, that it’s time to get ready for that party – to finally do it. This was during the end of December, that awful week between Christmas and New Years. For a whole week, my resolve, it was strong.

Just yesterday, I realized that I didn’t have the addresses of many of those who I wanted to invite. And shit, it’s already January 3, and her party is in like 4 weeks. That’s not enough time. Maybe I shouldn’t do it. I should just throw her a nice quiet family party or take her for Mouse Pizza in the seventh circle of parental hell. I shouldn’t throw her a party. No one will come, anyway.

And shit – she won’t remember it anyway.

(Amelia’s drawing of a good guy being attacked by bad guys)

I felt that hopelessness, that despair, sink in – I’ve been here before and I’ve always chosen to listen to that asshole voice in my ear – no one WILL come. It’s pointless to throw a toddler a party. I’m weak.

Then I stopped.

Before I could spiral any more, I stopped myself, and went over to evite – y’know, those crappy email invites? Yeah, I never use those. I love stationary, and paper invitations and nice thick envelopes, and handmade cards (it’s the same reason I never send Christmas cards – I get overwhelmed by the beautiful ones I could be making and end up sending none at all) and fuck email invitations.

Within ten minutes, I had an invitation ready to send. Ten minutes after that, I’d sent it to ten people.

I cannot tell you, Pranksters, how proud of myself I am. I looked my demons in their eyes and told them to fuck the fuck off. I will throw my daughter a party and people will come. There will be a house full of people who love her, even if half my friends live scattered around the country.

For that day, I will insist that my demons wear party hats and serve punch. If they don’t like it? They can go back into my closet. Because that day, that day is for my daughter.

She will finally get the celebration I’ve wanted to give her for three long years.

The pink balloons – like my heart – will, at long last, fly.

*If you guys are local, (I’m in a suburb of Chicago), we’d love to have you – and not because she needs presents, but because she needs to meet so many of the people who love her. I mean it. Just send me your email address and I’ll send you the evite…if you promise not to judge me for it.

First, I wrote this about the New Year. You should read it.

———–

So. That Meme. It kinda sucked. I know that. You know that. The guy down the block who doesn’t even know what Meme means knows that.

I’m sorta embarrassed I didn’t do this in the first place.

And to all of you who are type A enough to want to do one again? I’m sorry. Genuinely.

But here’s the Meme I wish I’d answered.

1) What does Meme mean?

I think it’s an ancient Latin term for “most annoying, self-centered survey on the planet.” Which is shockingly similar to the term “Aunt Becky.”

2) 2011 – Was it all you’d hoped it would be?

It was the year that WAS. I’m anxious (also frightened) to ring in 2012.

3) Did you watch the Royal Wedding?

Nope. I’m not into weddings. Although the hats, man, the hats were killer.

4) Where are your pants?

Pants are fucking bullshit.

5) Is Justin Bieber human or some sort of robot?

I’m altogether certain that Justin Bieber is a robot created from a hostile world to teach our tweens how to drive their parents absolutely bonkers.

6) If you had only one thing to wish for this coming year, what would it be?

I’ve thought a lot about resolutions (I’m thirty-fucking-one this year. I should fucking resolve something?) and I’ve come to this conclusion: I will resolve to not become Lil Wayne this year.

7) Would you call yourself a “social media maven?”

Those three words together are sorta like saying, “she has a good personality.” They’re a cleverly disguised insult.

8 ) If you had to take three things to a desert island (let’s assume you have ample food and water), what would they be?

Uncrustables.

Uncrustables.

John C. Mayer

Uncrustables.

9) If you had the ability to banish certain offenses to an island where they would be rehabilitated into being okay again, what would those offenses be?

“ALot” versus “A Lot.”

“Loose” instead of “Lose.”

Being John. C Mayer.

Using any corporate buzz words in a non-ironic way. See also: “action plan,” “deliverables,” “proactive,” “engaged.”

10) How do YOU think the air conditioner works?

Gnomes fanning large blocks of ice with over-sized ornamental fans.

11) Do you ACTUALLY think you can make money blogging?

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

*wipes eyes*

I PAY to blog.

12) There’s a lot of talk in the blog world about microblogging (The Tumblr, The Twitter, The Facebook) taking over traditional blogs. Do you think that’s the case?

Nah, I think that those who were on the fence about traditional blogging or preferred some other medium (i.e. pictures) have gone to the microblogging platforms. I think those of us stubborn enough to stick around will be here until they pry our keyboards from our cold, dead hands.

13) If you could give one piece of advice to your younger self, what would it be?

There’s always a way. Find it. Keep finding it. Nothing turns out how you thought it would – so just roll with it, Baby.

P.S. You’re not a redhead. Quit trying to be one.

14) If you could’ve told yourself this time last year one thing, what would it be?

Billy Mays death will leave a gaping hole. Don’t try to fill it with the imprisoned ShamWow guy.

15) If you could have one Super Power, what would it be?

I’d be Aunt Becky, Maker of Coffee. I’d be able to make coffee without causing small fires.

16) If you could do one thing you can’t currently do, and do it well, what would it be?

I’d be an opera singer. No, seriously. I’ve been known to sheer paint off walls with my awesomely awful voice.

17) What surprises you about yourself?

I remain shocked that I have ditched my nursing degree, popped out two more crotch parasites and started to live my life on the Internet. Also: the whole non-profit thing seems weird to me.

18) What was your favorite blog post/tweet of the past year?

“Look out below, motherfuckers!” – The Twitter.

19) Do you REALLY think “Purple Should Be A Flavor?”

I hear there is purple vodka. I think this is probably the single best thing ever (altho I’ve not tried it, which seems like a motherfucking sin.)

20) If you could make one outlandish wish for 2012, what would it be?

I’d go to Vegas, be married by a creepy drive-thru Elvis, and spend the next several months in the desert, recreating Fear and Loathing.

Alternately, I’d go on a fucking epic road trip with a friend or five.

—————–

Once you Type A people out there complete this, go ahead and linkage on up! I even put up a widget. WINNING!

Image via my rad friend Joslyn

Since I’ve been too busy drinking port and eating Captain Crunch, I will, instead point you to this, which is funny in a very sad way, and this, which needs comments. (I hate asking for comments. I feel like a cheap (er) whore)(I’ve got something awesomer for you guys tomorrow to make up for actually having the audacity to ask for comments).

*slinks off into corner*

How was YOUR New Year, Pranksters?

It’s unsurprising that my middle son and I are exceptionally close. For a whole year, that child (then baby) refused to allow anyone but me to touch his Royal Majesty, and while most parents would’ve been screaming and pulling out their hair, I loved it. Certainly not every day, but most days, it was so unbelievable that a child could love me.

I had a first son, of course, but, thanks to autism, his love has always been something expressed more delicately than Alex, who simply loved me. It was pure, untainted, and one of the most religious experiences of my life. I finally understood what it felt like to be a parent. I’d clung to the notion that I was a parent, yet never felt like it, for so many years.

He’s closing on five now, one of the most intense people I’ve ever known, and still my best small friend. When he’s sick, he crawls into my lap, nestling in like a baby bird, and allows me to bask in memories of those baby days. When he’s well, he scampers around with his brother and sister, stopping briefly to hug me before spinning off to do something else.

For Christmas this year, he got a new butterfly costume. I’ve been anxiously awaiting the day he somehow broke the wings or tore the tutu, so for Christmas he got a second set. He fluttered around the house, stopping only to put on the boots he’d lovingly selected:

May your heart always be joyful, Alex, may your song always be sung.

Always.

Once a year, every year since dinosaurs typed out blog posts with their wee flailing dinosaur hands on their gigantic Stone Age laptops, I do a Meme. Generally speaking, I do not like Memes. I do not think that my Pranksters give a fucking shit how I best like my coffee or what is in my purse right now. HOWEVER.

I am compulsive. And since I do this every year, I do this EVERY YEAR.

(As proof that I do not actually have a life, I offer this: 2010 here,  2009 here, 2008 here, 2007 here, 2006 here. I have 2005 somewhere in an email list, which is where I’d gotten this stupid meme in the first place)

1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before?

I started a non-profit organization – Band Back Together. I also ate a cheeseburger but that sorta pales in comparison.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I wrote this last year, “I hope that 2011 will bring me less bullshit and more happiness. More orchids and less backstabbing. More writing and less email. More cowbell and less synthesizers. Clearly.

There’s always room for cowbell.”

The Universe laughs at your (read: my) plans, Meme. Haven’t we learned that by now?

So I’ll go with something that’ll never happen: “Total World Domination.”

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

If my timeline is to be believed, I’m pretty sure The Twitter was pregnant. All of it.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Yes. My great-aunt Ruth and my (insert twice-removed twice-baked qualifier) cousin John.

5. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?

A bathroom break where three children plus assorted cats did not hang on my legs while I peed.

6. What countries did you visit?

Bwahahahahaha! I have three kids, Meme. I’m lucky if I can take a shit without an audience.

7. What date from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why:

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Year after year, you insist upon asking me this, Meme, like I have some kind of knowledge of these “dates” and stuffs.

Ooooh. I did EAT some bacon wrapped dates. Those were fucking tasty.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

I can use the microwave. WITHOUT causing small fires.

9. What was your biggest failure?

I still cannot use the coffee maker without causing small fires.

Also, I broke two teeth. That’s a pretty fat failure RIGHT THERE.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

I broke two teeth, one of which had to be yanked from it’s socket. I’m 31 – no one should be losing fucking teeth. Also: The Daver lost his appendix in a haze of glory.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

The nitrous for my tooth extraction. Don’t give a shit if my insurance won’t cover it – I can’t go all balls to the wall, y’all when I’m getting shit yanked out of mah head.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

Um, that Old Spice Guy? He’s pretty fucking full of the awesome.

Also: everyone who has had the balls to submit to Band Back Together.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

Siri, that miserable slut, who did NOT find my pants for me.

14. Where did most of your money go?

See also: 1) I started a non-profit.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

There was a sale on Uncrustables. Also: I got nominated for a Bloggie this year, against all odds, which is a gigantor honor. I didn’t win, but seriously, that was huge. So did Band Back Together, and they actually WON. #fuckyeah

16. What song will always remind you of 2011?

Britney Spears – Criminal.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

i. happier or sadder? You know, I keep expecting you to get more original each year, but no.

ii. thinner or fatter? Thinner.

iii. richer or poorer? That’s tacky, Meme.

Okay, Meme, let me take a stab at that:

i) more or less like Justin Beaver – less, obvs. Don’t have the kicky hairs.

ii) more or less likely to decide inanimate objects looked like boobs – more. Bring on the boobs.

iii) more or less likely to watch Glee – Less. That show has gotten depressingly bad.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Pranking The Internet.

Also:

Taking over the world.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

When you go into the dentist to have a tooth yanked out and they give you nitrous and you can actually feel the stress leaving your back and neck and suddenly you’re the least stressed you’ve been since you can remember, I’d say you have a problem. With not doing enough nitrous. Also: stress.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?

Let me be the 9238r23746 person to say, “Thank God it’s over.”

21. There was no #21. I don’t know why there was no 21.

I’ll make up my own question because I like to hear myself talk.

What’s up with your book, AB?

Well, I parted ways with my agent (my idea not theirs) and so far, the future is hazy, try back later. I may just be a blogger 4eva. And frankly? That’s not so fucking bad. I love what I do.

22. Did you fall in love in 2011?

If  “with myself” is an answer, I’ll choose that one. If it’s not, I’ll go with yes, with my Keurig (no I did not get one for free or anything). Now I can make coffee without burning the house down.

23. How many one-night stands?

If you count making love to the Keurig, at least a dozen.

24. What was your favorite TV program?

Didn’t love Dexter this season, so I’m gonna go with watching reruns of NBC’s Life. Fucking shame that show got canceled.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

Nope.

26. What was the best book you read?

Pshaw. Like I have time to read books. We all know I’m illegitimate illiterate.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?

That special song, “Pants on the Ground.”

28. What did you want and get?

Nitrous.

30. What was your favorite film of this year?

I watched Precious. And was only mildly suicidal by the time it was over.

That sucked. I’m going to make up a new question:

Where are your pants?

Like I fucking know. Ask Siri. They’re probably on their way to Vegas with my sanity.

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I turned 31. And I have no earthly idea what I did this year. We’ll go with “pants off dance off”

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

More cowbell?

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011?

“Holy shit, I have abs again.”

34. What kept you sane?

Um, I write a blog on The Internet where I call myself “Aunt Becky.” I haven’t been “sane” in years.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

The ShamWow guy.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?

The great “Get up” or “get down” debate.

37. Who did you miss?

My sanity? Oh, you said “who.” Hrms. My pants? Wait. No. Um.

OH LOOK A BLUE CAR!

38. Who was the best new person you met?

You. You, mah Pranksters. Always you guys.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011:

Never underestimate the importance of a good set of sheets.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:

(God, that seems so MySpace).

I just, I can’t. I’m sorry, Meme.

—————-

The rest of the meme says I should tag some people but, eh, I don’t tagging people. It makes me twitchy. Mostly because I’ll forget someone and then, then I’ll feel sad in the pants.

INSTEAD.

I’m tagging each of you. If I can do one Meme a year, SO CAN YOU, Pranksters. DO IT. It’s full of the awesome. JUST like 2012 is going to be. Even if I have to beat it into submission and make it my fucking bitch.

Happy Happy New Year, Pranksters.

I added a linky for you guys to add your posts, if you do this one! Why? Because obviously.

I’ve wanted one of those disco shower heads ever since SkyMall happily informed me that they exist.

Think about it. No longer would you have to take ORDINARY showers! You’d be able to rock out with your cock out (alternately: jam out with your clam out) as you got clean. If I owned one of those puppies, I’d make EVERYONE who came over take a shower. TOGETHER!

Okay, so maybe not together. Also: I should totally write ads.

Anyway, I was perusing the Think Geek website, looking for the perfect gift for someone now missing a vestigial organ. (one could argue that I could have been talking about my tooth, but as my tooth was not a proper organ, that is neither here nor there).

There it was. In all it’s shimmering glory. Red and blue LED Showerhead. On fucking sale.

BOOM, Motherfuckers!

Of course I bought it.

It arrived yesterday. I spent the afternoon fantasizing about the disco shower I was gonna take. I got my new iPod dock loaded with Britney Spears and prepared to get up with the get down (or is it get down, get down?).

That was, of course, until The Daver evilly thwarted my plans.

As we ate our dinner, he dropped the bomb on me:

Aunt Becky: “OMG. I’m SO gonna take a disco shower. I should invite The Twitter over for a disco shower with me!”

The Daver: (looks at the packaging)

Aunt Becky: “Did I tell you I’m planning Amelia’s birthday party? Maybe we can have it in the shower!”

The Daver: (keeps looking at the packaging)

Aunt Becky: “This is seriously the best day ever. I’m gonna invite my parents over to look at my shower!”

The Daver: “This showerhead doesn’t have a massage setting.”

Aunt Becky: “So? Neither does our current one.”

The Daver: “Yes, it does.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ve lived here for five years and you never bothered to mention that?”

The Daver: “I thought you knew.”

Aunt Becky: “…”

The Daver: “Apparently, you didn’t know.”

The Guy On My Couch Ben: “I knew that.”

The Daver: “See?”

Aunt Becky: “I take it I’m not getting my disco showerhead.”

The Daver: “….”

The Guy On My Couch Ben: “….”

Aunt Becky: “You guys all suck.”

My parents were hippies. You know this. I know this. The guy down the block prolly knows it to, but I’m not asking him because HELLO AWKWARD.

That explanation alone probably explains why they would give me a concoction called, “Coffee, milk, sugar,” starting at age two. I delighted in this drink. I remember sitting at the table, feeling ever-so-grown-up drinking coffee out of a coffee mug JUST LIKE THE OLD PEOPLE DID.

I don’t recall spazzing out and running around like an asshole afterward, but it’s possible.

For Ben’s first Christmas in this house, which had to be (scratches head)(counts on fingers)(stares at wall)(guesses), pushing five, six years ago, I lovingly selected a very tiny coffee mug for him. It was a cheap old thing, but it was so wee and so darling and so motherfucking adorable that I nearly ovulated all over the chick next to me at Crate and Barrel.

I’m not sure what exactly I was thinking he’d do with it. My son, while he is many things, is not an adventurous sort. Milk makes him weep, he doesn’t understand the concept of hot chocolate (until his siblings pointed out how rad it is, I might add). He’s a water-on-the-rocks kinda kid. I respect that.

My daughter, on the other hand, is extremely adventurous.

She also has an obsession with coffee. Normally, she’ll pop up next to me as I’m slurping down the sweet, sweet nectar of the gods, and very coyly ask to dip her binkie in the coffee. If Daver’s not around to bitch at me, I let her. Why the fuck not?* You’re only two once. And coffee? Well, coffee is FOREVER.

A couple of days ago, I realized the downfall to letting her dip-dip her binkie in my coffee is this: she’s infecting me with plague. (I wouldn’t put it past her to dip her binkie in my coffee for that very purpose.)

So I dragged out that wee, adorable cuppy that I’d bought for Ben so many years ago. I ovulated all over the kitchen as I put a splash of coffee, a heaping amount of sugar, and a liberal amount of milk into it.

“There,” I said. “Mimi’s coffee.”

I’ve never seen her grin so largely.

And proving once again that she is, in fact, my daughter, she downed that motherfucker.

Then asked for seconds.

Atta girl, Mimi.

*not actually asking WHY NOT? I’m sure it’s not fabulous for her and frankly? I’m not too worried about a teaspoon of coffee.

Last night found me sitting in the middle of a bustling Chinese restaurant, several of the employees dressed as elves. I looked around (it had been several years since I, myself, had been there) and realized that while it had once been decorated in standard American Chinese restaurant – think beige tones, ancient maps of China on the wall, fake flowers adorning every table – it had now been turned into Hawaii. Chinese-style.

That’s right, I sat, in the middle of a Hawaiian Chinese restaurant, served by a Chinese elf, while The Grinch played on the lone television, subtitled. A gaggle of college kids on my left tried to order a Hot Toddy while the table behind me gripped about the buffet being refilled too infrequently.

I was (initially) sober – I checked. And it was real.

I did the only logical thing one should do in such a situation – I began to order girly drinks with bizarre names like “Pina Colada” and “Scorpion” – which, the menu said, to “be wary of sting.” (I’m generally a bourbon girl, if anything, so girly drinks all sound oddly-named to me)

It had been a tough Christmas for me.

The addition of another (adult) person to care for right around the time I normally am all, “holy FUCK I forgot to do xxx” made for long days. Things around my house have been strained, as most of you have guessed. I’m never prepared enough to have my presents bought OR wrapped more than three days pre-Christmas, no matter how much I vow to be That Person. It’s always a mad dash in the days leading up to Christmas, and between the mouth surgery (me) and the vestigial organ removal (The Daver).

And I love the holidays. So having them be anything other than full of the awesome makes me sad in the pants.

Somehow, though, that awesomely tacky Chinese restaurant redeemed the holiday for me. Sure, I got drunk on girl drinks and am pretty sure my head is going to a) explode all over the fucking place or 2) explode, but not all over the place. Yeah, my food sorta tasted like an approximation of Mongolian Beef rather than the actual item I’d ordered. And okay, if I’m being honest, my Mai Tai tasted almost identical to lighter fluid.

But it didn’t matter.

Sitting there, in what I’m pretty sure was a David Lynch movie set, I was reminded of the absurdity of life. How there is joy in the smallest, most ridiculously decorated spaces. How even when things are so, so hard, we have hope.

And I do.

I hope.