Dear Speech Therapist:

I am writing to you today on behalf of my daughter, Amelia.

It took me a long time to admit that the birth defect that my daughter had been born with had caused her to develop abnormally. No one wants to imagine their child has problems and all that we’ve dealt with in Amelia’s short life have been problems. Potential problems. Wait-and-see problems. Real problems, too.

Thanks to an improper aligning of cells around 28 days gestation, my daughter’s brain developed (in small part) outside of her head. At three weeks of age, she had surgery to remove this brain matter and fix the skull that hadn’t properly formed.

In her short life, she’s dealt with more than most and she’s handled it with more grace and dignity than I ever could.

So today, I write to you on her behalf.

You are her second therapist, hired by Early Intervention to help my daughter find her words. I like to picture them floating around her beautiful brain like fireflies, someone like you hired to help her find and catch them. If I could have done it without you, believe me, I would have. Accepting help is not something that I excel in.

But I have realized that you have a talent that I do not and I reached out and asked you to help my daughter, the girl with curls like a halo, to help her find her words.

The first therapist Amelia had was fantastic…but was allergic to my cats. She stuck it out and worked with my daughter as long as she possibly could, attempting to EYE OF THE TIGER through it until my daughter was able to find a replacement.

Then we found you. Therapist Number Two.

I’ve met you twice now. My daughter likes you. That says a lot. Amelia is rather picky about Her People.

Three weeks ago, you called off services, claiming you couldn’t make it. Some sort of meeting you wouldn’t be back from. How you didn’t know that ahead of time, I wasn’t sure, but I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. It happens. Things come up.

Two weeks ago, you called off again. Sick this time. Again, that’s fine. Sick happens. I’d rather you not bring sickness into my home anyway. I’d just had surgery and needed to be sick again like I needed to be kicked in the face by a donkey.

Yesterday, you had your scheduler call. This time, you claimed that you were allergic to my cats. You wanted to continue services by meeting at the mall. THE MALL. Along with the Mall Walkers and teenagers, we were somehow supposed to meet with you at the mall. Right. That makes sense. Because the entire point of having services in the home is because children my daughter’s age learn better in their own homes. The mall is not an environment that is conducive to learning and as an “educator” you should know better.

What offends me most about this is not that you wanted to meet at the mall. It’s that you are lying to me. If you had such a problem with my cats (I have 2 cats, not 23), you should have said so three weeks ago when I had the ability to start the search for someone new then.

Instead, you’ve given me three flimsy excuses and now my daughter has had no therapy in three weeks. Three. Weeks.

While that is not a long time to an adult or even, perhaps, a three-year old, this is a huge amount of time for a child her age. You should know that and you should be ashamed of yourself for putting her in this position.

You left me no choice but to fire you. So I did. I can’t have someone so obviously flaky trying to teach my daughter to find her words.

But I’m hurt that you’d do this to her. She’s had a hard life. You’re not making it any easier on her.

My daughter, though, she’s a fighter. She’s doing just fine on her own. She’s come up with a number of words you never taught her because you’d never bothered. Really, it’s your loss.

You’re lucky I’m too infirm to hunt you down and make you blow bubbles with her.

I honestly hope that your other patients are treated with more respect and regard than my daughter has been.

Sincerely,

Aunt Becky

This spring, I made a deliberate attempt at making my house look as though a couple of serial killers didn’t live here. The 70’s, you see, seemed to be a time of Great Bushes, and the people whom we had purchased our home from hadn’t bothered to *snort* take care of their Bushes. So we had a Bush Overgrowth. *cackles*

Bush-Gate 2010 was born and I removed all 2,083 of the overgrown bushes in an effort to convince the neighborhood that perhaps my house was not populated by Dexter’s Biggest Fans. (you get your whore hands off my television husband)

And yet now, six months later, I ordered my groceries PeaPod AND attempted to use “dry” shampoo (turns out it’s bullshit) because I am so infirm. My skin is turning a milky-shade of white as I have been stuck on the couch, my muscles atrophying into puddles of goo. No longer can I say, “WHICH WAY TO THE GYM?” then kiss my arms as I flex.

Oh no.

I am a slug. A cockroach. An OLD PERSON. If I fell, I couldn’t get up. I need one of those Life Alert things. (much as one of my Pranksters suggested)

More than that, I’m afraid that my neighbors will think that I’ve been chopped up into tiny bits and shoved down the garbage disposal because they haven’t seen me. Every time the phone rings, I figure it’s the cops investigating a possible homicide at my residence. You know, since Becky Sherrick Harks hasn’t been seen in nearly two weeks and even had groceries delivered (I hate ordering PeaPod).

I may not be particularly smart OR handy, but I am the person who is outside puttering around and staring at the car, willing whatever problem its having (JOHN C MAYER) to be fixed by sheer mental power alone. I’ll stand there staring, waiting until the solution jumps out at me, or my neighbor comes and points out out. I’ll let YOU guess which comes first.

So for me not to be outside at all is troublesome.

I’d guess that the neighborhood is going to be covered with HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON? signs soon. Not because I’m popular, just because if someone goes missing in your neighborhood, do you REALLY want to say, “Oh, I did NOTHING about it?”

No. No you do not.

There will be a search of the neighborhood, I’d bet and maybe even some of those rescue body dogs. Hopefully the dogs will uncover another murder since I am not actually dead. Merely pasty and slug-like.

Eventually, one of the kids will inform the search parties, or the weeping “WHY GOD WHY” ladies that have never known me, yet feel compelled to cry at my “death” that I am not exactly dead, merely bored and stuck on the couch.

The search people will be mad, of course, but really, who do they have to blame but themselves?

I would have told them I wasn’t dead or missing.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I’ve got a bit of an issue. I hate my family. But at the same time, I cannot help but love them. My wife becomes extremely exasperated at their antics, into which they continually drag me. As my wife put it to me recently, I go through cycles. I’ll be in a phase where I’ll gladly hang out with them and socialize and whatnot, until I realize once again what fuckwads they are, and I’ll have nothing to do with them for another month, until shenanigans begin once more.

In addition to continually getting caught up in the drama, I find myself becoming increasingly frustrated at the way they live. I’m frustrated that my brothers take advantage of my mother, that my mother cannot get her finances straight to save her life, that my other brother cannot save his own relationship/finances/family, that my step father will not fix his health issues (which are of the sort which could be fixed with some effort). I guess I somehow feel as though I dragged myself out of the hole from which I came, why can’t they?

My question is thus twofold. How do I find a happy medium in my association with my family, and how do I accept that they are who they are and if they want to change they’ll call it into existence without my help or agitation?

Mystern

On the one hand, Prankster Mystern, I want desperately to be tragically glib in my answer here, and say something about creating a Pavlovian response to punch yourself in the face every time you feel as though you need to change your family from being the fuckwads they are into the more responsible people the can be.

On the much less medicated other, I think most of us can deeply sympathize with quandary. I don’t know a single one of us who doesn’t have at least one family member or close friend who doesn’t make the sorts of decisions that make us want to stab ourselves in the face with dull pencils.

But as the child of addicts, I can tell you (seriously) this: you cannot accept responsibility for other people.

So that’s my honest suggestion to every single one of you, my darling Pranksters, (and something I should tattoo on myself): your only responsibility is to yourself. The very moment you begin feeling as though you are frustrated with their behavior, you need to take a step back and assess. Can you continue contact without driving yourself to drink heavily? Is this a relationship that has merits?

And if the answer is “I don’t fucking know, Aunt Becky, shut your whore mouth,” come and sit next to me, because I think that’s how we all feel most of the time.

Family, man. Family.

(There’s a reason I adopted the Internet.)

Dear Aunt Becky,

I wrote to you about a crush in the past, I thought it was crazy, It kinda of turned into a bootie call.. though I will clarify been friends for a time prior, so maybe it means friends with benefits..

So I am confused, I know he doesn’t want a relationship (a committed one anyways) he is very honest and open, I totally appreciate this.. But here is my confusion. What went from just sex, he now calls making love.. I don’t understand… anyway, I love this guy dearly he is like my best friend, I was afraid to lose this friendship.. I wanna know should I tell him I wanna back off on the sex a bit? It’s phenomenal.. I have never had a g-spot orgasm until I met him; never mind the mind blowing regular O’s I get.. It’s like we were make for each other sexually… I think I am okay with my feelings making sure I don’t fall for him.. But I wanna fall in love with a man who wants to be with me..not just a guy who will have sex with me as I am (i am overweight and it doesn’t bother him)

I am afraid I am damaged..because I haven’t fallen for this guy, I think my past relationship (baby daddy) ruined me.

I am sorry this is confusing huh? should I end the sex and move on.. but hopefully keep the friendship? because losing the friendship would break my heart.. or should I just keep have mind blowing sex with him until i find someone to love?

Prankster, I don’t think you’re damaged for not falling for this guy, I think you’re protecting your heart. It sounds as though he’s made it clear that while you guys can have steamy sex (which sounds fabulous, by the by), he’s not interested in dating you. And you know you want more than that. Which says a lot about you.

I sort of want to dance around the room singing some sort of Prince song (Pussy Control, perhaps?) with you because I love you for it. You deserve BOTH a guy who can make your vagina do the tango AND make your heart flippity-flop in your chest. Don’t forget it.

Now, as far as your current situation, maybe it’s time to sit down and see what’s what. If you don’t want to lose the friendship you have, it sounds like you guys need to have A Talk and figure out where the other stands (he’s sending out some wicked mixed messages). Otherwise, it’s going to be hella awkward when one of you meets someone that you do want to settle down with.

Prankster, please remember being overweight is NOT a reason not to have someone want to have The Sex with you. Don’t sell yourself short! And can I say that I heart you? Because I do. xo.

Dear Pranksters,

Do you remember this post? I do. Well, we got a response from the asker in the comments of the post. I’ll paste it below:

Thank you all so much for your support, and thanks Aunt Becky for the links and info.

I did leave!

After he threatened to kill me if I left him, then told me to get out, my son and I moved in with my parents while my soon-to-be-ex husband was on a business trip out of the country. He left on Thursday the 28th, and on Friday the 29th I was handing my parents’ credit card to the lawyer while my son was at preschool and my parents, sister and her mother-in-law were clearing room in their house.

The next day sister’s mother-in-law brought her dad to help. I had everything out by 10 pm Sunday the 31st. My neighbor helped my son get his jack-o-lantern carved Saturday, my dad took us around the block trick-or-treating like always, then Sunday the little pumpkin went to a church festival with the neighbor’s 2 kids.

While he was gone my husband placed a “morale call” from the base he was staying on and found out I was leaving. He freaked out and his boss had him brought home Tuesday. I filed reports and swore out warrants Wednesday for domestic violence-harassment and harassing communications (53 text messages Tuesday afternoon)- there will be a protection order in place as a condition of release.

I filed for divorce Thursday. He hasn’t been served yet, but he will be.

And he will flip when he sees that petition.

My mom found me a good lawyer. My sister found a safe house for my mom and son to stay in until I get a custody order so my husband can’t take him. I haven’t missed a day of work this week, and my anxiety is starting to lift.

Of course I carry my (licensed) pistol with me everywhere. But that’s okay. That’s why he bought it for me: to defend myself.

The funny thing is, my son seems to totally understand why we left and he’s fine with it, I think he’s relieved too. He’s asked for me, his kitten, and his Batman toy. Not for his daddy. He’s playing with gramma, the horses, the dogs, and the wonderful Christian people who will keep them and hide them and keep them safe. He’s sleeping well, eating better than he ever has, and being a good boy. He asked me on Wednesday before we left if we could go live with gramma’s new kitty. Little did he know!

Thank you all Pranksters for your encouragement! I cried as I read your comments. I thought I had cried all the tears in the world already, but these were tears of joy that so many who have never met me would show me such love! You all are The Awesome! I know I still have a long row to hoe, but I have lots of stuff on tape, and some other stuff that should be sufficient to protect me and my son from my husband.

I love you all.

There’s a blaze of light in every word, indeed, Pranksters.

Love to each of you. Always,

Aunt Becky

SPOILER ALERT: I still have my drains. The upside? I’m feeling somuchbetter. Possibly because I’m ALSO weaning myself from The Max (Topamax)(GOD, I hate writing drug words, because then I am spammed to BALLS with “farmacies” selling me knock-off drugs, which is the opposite of awesome. Normally, I’m just spammed about Ugg Boots, which is working, because I’m now dying for a pair of them. Well played, Spammers) while I’m on hardcore narcotics.

And while you’ve been busy, living your life, THIS is what I’ve been thinking about:

*I’ve started writing a weekly Open Letter To Something on Mushroom Printing. This week, I wrote to my abdominal muscles. Last week, I wrote to vomit. Because OBVIOUSLY.

*When presented with this, the answer is always yes:

You all know how badly I want a Robot Monkey Butler named Mr. Pinchey, right? I used to want a REAL monkey butler, but I think PETA would be all up my ass if I got one, and besides, I don’t want my face ripped off. *makes Zoolander Face*

*Zoolander Face*

*I require this dress.

Okay, so not THIS one specifically, but one JUST LIKE IT.

So, Pranksters, if you should choose to accept this mission and find me this dress, I will hump you forever. Or, at least, uh, NOT hump you? WHATEVER YOU WANT.

*OR, I could give you this cookbook I found.

Aunt Becky + Rachael Ray = NOT BFF.

Why? I DON’T KNOW. I think she’s too happy for me.

I found THIS cookbook on my shelf and got WICKED confused. Like REALLY confused. We ALL know I don’t cook. And EVERYONE who knows me knows that Rachael Ray and I are NOT OKAY with each other. And somehow, THIS was on my shelf. THIS was NOT DIAMONDS. THIS WAS RACHAEL RAY.

I was stampy. HORRIFIED. This may be the source of all bad karma in my life. How long had it sat on my shelf? And WHERE had it come from? I simply didn’t know.

I STILL don’t know. At least the Williams-Sonoma books came from a recognizable source (my stupidity). I think I’m going to run some sort of contest to get rid of those cookbooks. Like, MAKE ME AWESOMESAUCE and get some ridiculous cookbooks.

*Earlier today, I tweeted this post on Band Back Together about Gender Non-Conformity.

(my manly butterfly says FUCK YOU to gender stereotypes, by the by)

Normally I tweet Band Back Together stuff from the Band Back Together Twitter Account. I recognize that the people on my Mommy Wants Vodka Twitter are normally expecting status updates like, “I JUST TOOK A POO, PLZ RT” so I try to keep the do-gooding to a minimum on there. But the gender non-conformity piece and occasional other pieces, well, when I see awesome ones (and don’t be offended if I do not, because I do not edit everything), I tweet them. I just can’t overwhelm people who expect status updates on my vagina.

(P.S. I hate having to think like that).

Well, this is what happened.

Let me show that to you a little closer.

That cause would PROBABLY be you. WHOOPS. And ROCK ON. I’m PROUD. Crash away, Pranksters. CRASH AWAY.

(no seriously, please crash the shit out of it. I’ll buy more space)

*Also: my rose is defiantly thumbing its nose at November.

Note my finger at the bottom. I expect a GRAMMY for this picture.

I should probably warn you that surgery is very, very glamorous. Like, I don’t even know how to tell you how glamorous it is to be me right now. You should all be jealous, Pranksters.

I mean, first, I get to use THESE (beloved by old people everywhere):

Oh yeah. FAKE BATH WIPES. I don’t get to take showers yet, so I get to use these bad boys. Get jealous, Pranksters. I smell like AWESOME.

Know why I can’t take showers?

My JP Drains. Even the name “drain” sounds like magic, don’t you agree?

(you do agree, I just know it.)

I’ll spare you the shots of MY drains, suffice to say that they look like aliens exploding from the binder on my chest, should I attempt to cover them up with a shirt. Although, really, why would I want to cover up such awesomeness?

Simple answer, I wouldn’t.

But I am hoping to have the doctor take them out today. I called yesterday about what I thought might be a popped stitch, and he thinks it’s just the nerves waking back up (HELLO HORRIFYING). I’m going in to see him, just to be on the safe side, which means (I hope) GOOD BYE DRAINS.

So tell me, Pranksters, how are YOU today?

Things that are bullshit:

My walls are butt-ugly. I know this because I’ve been staring at them for like 900 hours straight.

I need to call the doctor because I think I popped an internal stitch. I don’t KNOW this, but I think I did. Popping stitches is kinda bullshit.

Bedrest? More bullshit than you’d think. Especially when cockroach-y like myself. I’m sort of unable to move on my own, which sucks, because I AM alone today.

That song “All By Myself” is going through my head. That song is bullshit.

Spell check doesn’t recognize bedrest as a word, which makes me feel invalidated and insecure especially since Spell Check doesn’t think “Rebecca” is a word either, which it SO CLEARLY IS.

I have no Vicodin-Chip cookies because I am too sore to make them.

I found a number of cookbooks in my house when I was purging it. Cookbooks in my house are bullshit because I don’t cook. Especially WILLIAM SONOMA Cookbooks. Who the fuck did I think I was when I bought those? Martha Fucking Stewart?

Silent letters. What. The Fuck?

Things That Are NOT Bullshit:

Adding a silent “balls” to things when they’re awesome. Like silent letters, but better.

MY NEW SHIRTS ARE IN.

VEGAS, baby. December 10-12. I (still) Do is going on at the same time, so I’m joining forces with them so we can properly paint the town many shades of glitter. They’ve secured a block of hotel rooms at the MGM Grand and are having parties. I was just going to try and reenact Fear and Loathing and Las Vegas.

More bloggers means they can bail us out of jail we’re all, THIS HERE IS BAT COUNTRY, Pranksters.

Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups. They’re SO not bullshit.

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS.

How’s that for dramatic? Because I figured I should be dramatic since really, I’ve been doing a whole lot of sitting on my ass since I’ve been here last. Well, okay, TECHNICALLY, I slept some in there, too, but really, I laid on my back and squiggled around like a bug while approximating sleep because frankly, sleeping on your back sucks a fat one. I know people are all breezily like, “sleeping on your back is good for your chi,” or some shit, but so is eating free-range organic pesticide, sweat-shop free paste. And I like Uncrustables.

Shockingly, I am still not running marathons.

Frankly, I’m still not able to take showers. Which means I’m a cockroach that twirls in the air when I’m on my back while smelling bad. Which means that you should come over immediately, if not sooner.

I’m going to the doctor today to hear how I am doing with this whole recovery thing. I’m trying to be a good patient and not be all, ‘Am I better yet?‘ every forty-five seconds to The Daver who is probably ready to set me out with tonight’s garbage. And if he sets me out on my back, see, I can’t get up (read: I am the cockroach in Kafka), so it’s likely they’ll toss me into the dumpster with the landfill-clogging shitty baby diapers.

I haven’t seen them yet, but I now have pictures of my incision. It goes from BEYOND one hip to BEYOND the other. Which? RAD. I have a feeling I will look like a jaunty smiley face when I am done healing.

ALSO? And even more wicked rad?

I HAVE A NEW BELLY BUTTON.

Oh yes, Pranksters, my old saggy belly button that had scars from my multiple piercings? GONE. In it’s place is a new, improved belly button.

I’m going to get a sign that says, “MY BELLY BUTTON BRINGS ALL THE BOYS TO THE YARD.” Because it totally will. Once it’s done being covered in tiny stitches, because right now, I don’t think any boys are going to be all, “damn right, it’s better than hers.” I wonder if my troll who called me navel grazing knew that I might take him so…seriously.

Except no, I don’t care about trolls so much.

But I have to tell you about the ones that were all up in my shit on the Toy With Me article last week. They hurted my feelers and made me sad in the pants. Because, Pranksters, you’ll like this: I got someone who got pretty pissed about it. Now, I was in surgery when the Shit Went Down. When I came out, the last thing I wanted to do was to be all WHAT’S THE INTERNET DOING!?! so I didn’t check until Friday.

On Friday, I saw that while I was under the knife, someone had been being all In My Face over there and THEN, had gone to the trouble of blocking me on The Twitter. Which, hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

I’m in surgery, you moron. I’m not getting up to engage in a flame war.

Whatever. Now I’m just all, IS THE RHYTHM REALLY GONNA GET ME LIKE GLORIA ESTEFAN SAID? Because, freaky.

(thanks to my Twitter friend I will later link to for putting that horrid idea in my head)

OH! And I shared an incredibly personal story about antenatal depression, which TOTALLY does not match the tone of this whacked out post here on Postpartum Progress. I wrote it BEFORE I was stoned and on heavy-duty painkillers. Which, heh, yeah. You should read it. It’s important. This post, however, my old ass troll would LOVE.

OMFGBBQ, PRANKSTERS, I MISSED YOU. You don’t even KNOW how much I missed you. I missed you so much that I am actually sitting here, crouched over my computer like a Letter C, in actual pain, because I missed of you and was sad in the pants because I WAS SO VERY ALONE (and lonesome) WITHOUT YOU.

I think that means I’m alive. That, or death looks remarkably like my life.

Since I do not have long in this Letter C position before I pass out from lack of oxygen, I will give you the highlights.

I woke up from The Surgery in the post-op recovery room to someone singing the pina colada sing. If you don’t know it, be glad. (Or, at the very least, know that you’ve probably never sung listened to other people warble bad bar karaoke as much as I have.)

Anyway, I like the song because I am 12 and I have changed the words from, “If you like pina colada’s and dancing in the rain…” to “if you like PENIS COLADA’S and dancing in the rain.” Which is much awesomer, and far more hilarious, BECAUSE GET IT!?! PENIS COLADA!?!

HILARIOUS.

Then I was all, “So, what did the surgeon say?” because frankly, who doesn’t want to know how their motherfucking surgery went? And the nurse was all, “you’ve asked me that four times” like I was an asshole idiot for not remembering that. I mean, hi, POST-OP RECOVERY ROOM. She should have been glad I wasn’t flinging my shit around. Ass.

Still, no one told me about my surgery. For all I knew, I could have gotten a nose job instead. Which I hadn’t wanted.

So, finally, they moved me to my floor, where Dave told me that the surgery went well. I don’t know what that means, suffice to say that they took off 6 pounds of crap, moved a bunch of muscles around and gave me morphine through a button that I could press whenever I wanted. That was more than “well,” but you know.

THEN, I got my roommate. Pranksters, she needed a taco kick because apparently, she’d never heard of the concept of an “inside voice” or “personal space.” The moment I arrived, she began to shriek. Not like, in anguish, just like her normal speaking tone. Bitch couldn’t fucking shut her whore mouth. For four hours. At one point, she was arguing with her mother, talking on the phone AND watching television while inviting her husband to bring her food. At 8 PM. I’d been trying to nap off the surgery for that entire time to no avail. She had no medical reason to be there other than she seemed to enjoy the attention.

It was then when I informed the staff that one of us would be moving.

I must have looked serious because they moved her right away.

Anyway.

I’m home now and while I’d like to say that laying around and recovering is full of the awesome, I’m kind of bored. Also: in some pretty bad pain. I’d describe what I’ve been doing, but primarily it involves “sitting on the couch,” “peeing” and “laying down.” If I had wet paint, I’d be watching it dry. If there was grass growing, I’d be watching that, too.

I’m wearing a binder, which means I can’t eat, which also explains why those ladies in the 1900’s were skinny. Binders = corsets = HOLY SHIT, NO ROOM IN THE INN.

Also, I feel like a cockroach. You never realize how much you use your abs for until they’re all “peace out, asswipe.” If I’m stuck in bed, I’m still stuck there until I’m later retrieved. It’s pretty good punishment, I guess.

Now I’m left to moulder on the couch and debate the true question of the ages: who sang the better version of “Hair of the Dog?”

I didn’t spend as much time on Twitter today. I was all busy with the work and stuff and then the Internet was down. From our office. And an entire office of technology people stopped and wandered around aimlessly for they knew not what to do. I looked at an actual paper catalog, people. It was bizarre. When I got back on Twitter – from home, you understand, I saw that there was a Twitter topic that was all about Tweeting to your 16 year old self. It inspired this letter. Now, I never write this kind of stuff on my own site. I never get too far from the ridiculous on mine. And Becky wanted me to just do funny, but this was stuck in my head and it had to come out and I sort of hoped that maybe it would be okay too. Because the beauty of Becky’s site is that sometimes, you don’t have to be funny. I hope that this is okay with y’all. I’ve got one more that I can come back and do that is full of the funny, but I had to get this out first. Hugs ~Guilty Squid

Dear 16 year old me,

I’m pretty sure you’re going to have a hard time believing it’s me. For one thing? It’s going to seem really stupid that if I had the ability to send a letter back in time, I wouldn’t actually go back in time my whole self, but science is very confusing for us and we don’t actually understand all of the technology involved, just that it worked. If you’re still in doubt then I’ll tell you that I know on the weekend of your 16th birthday, you cried bitterly and you said something selfish and stupid to Daddy that we can’t forget and even though you didn’t mean it? You wish you could take it back. Also? I know exactly where you got that Def Leppard T-Shirt, and it wasn’t from a concert. Yeah, that’s right. You believe me now, don’t you?

Listen, if I had my way, we’d never need to have this letter. You’ve spent a lot of time wondering how your life would be different “if” and you’ll spend a lot more time wondering. Hell, we probably won’t ever stop wondering. But the truth is you’re going to be okay. I know it doesn’t seem like it, and there’s going to be lots of days where it doesn’t seem like it, but you will be okay. One day? Someone will understand and you’ll spend many happy moments on the road to “okay”. Hang in there.

School sucks for us and it doesn’t ever really get better. Teachers are going to say a lot of crappy things to you because they don’t understand you. Please stop listening to those awful things they say. They are wrong. They are so, so wrong. Forget about trying to make them happy and do more things that you enjoy.

Not that every teacher is going to suck. Take time to thank Mrs. Simmonds. She’s going to love the things you write and she’s going to spend so much time helping you build your confidence. And your vocabulary. What she will give you will shape who you become later in life, and trust me – she didn’t have to spend all that extra time encouraging you. She’s the first person who looks past the fear you have and sees the amazing person inside. She’s helping the awesome that is inside you. She’s making sure you’ll be ready to shine. Thank her.

Stop trying to fit in. In a few years, everyone will be fighting to stand out from the crowd. You’re already ahead of the game. Fitting in usually ends badly, anyway. All the times that you say no to things even though saying yes would make you fit in, will be something that you’ll be proud of your entire life. Remember, you’re going to be okay.

Hug Daddy more often. Hug him harder and listen to him more. Enjoy being with him. He’s the first man who loved you unconditionally. Do better showing him how much you love him too. The next time you hug him, do me a favor, would you? Take a minute to just breathe in the smell of Dad’s cologne and relax in the safety of his hugs. Then remind us to never, ever forget that moment.

Skip the typing class with the big clunky typewriters and the business class with the actual ledgers. Just trust me. It’s a total waste. I know you’ll want to take the class that most kids take, but go on and take that computer programming class instead. Just trust me on this one.

I know you told that guy Johnny “no” right before school started. And you did the right thing. He wasn’t the one, and it wasn’t right. (Uh, seriously, he ended up on something called Baywatch and no one ever heard his name again. Plus? That acne is not going to clear up on him for years. Which also means you probably just realized we’re still somewhat superficial.) My point is, you were right to say no to Johnny and you really should say no to Brad. You’re going to fall for him. And for a couple of years you’ll make him your world. But it will end, you’ll get your heart broken, and you’ll end up doing a lot of stupid things for a lot of stupid years because you won’t understand that it’s okay to just walk away when you have that first nagging feeling of it not being right. Which reminds me: Start listening to that feeling. Trust yourself. Stop pushing that feeling and that reaction down and moving forward in spite of it. Move in a different direction because of it.

This high school thing is not the best time of your life. It’s not even close. You’ve got a great deal ahead of you and you won’t even believe how you turn out. You have friends. You have great kids. You write all the time. It’s fantastic over here and you’ll be glad you made it to this place. You laugh. You go months without nightmares. You never really get over the whole birthday thing, but those friends I mentioned? They understand it. And they love you anyway.

You’re going to be okay.

We’re going to be okay.

I am okay.

Hang in there.

Love~

Me

P.S. Let’s just try to love ourselves a little more, okay?

P.P.S. Oh, and that dress that your Aunt talks you into getting? That blue number with the lace collar? Just, no. No, no, no.

P.P.P.S. Hammer-Time is *not* going to last forever, so don’t get any of those pants, George Michaels is gay, and save your money and buy all the stock you can in something called Google as soon as you can.

P.P.P.P.S. I KNOW! The George Michaels thing seems so obvious after you look back at the old Wham! videos, right?

What do you call a PS that comes before the whole post? A Pre-PS? Pre-PS – The following probably won’t make much sense, so you can totally just skip ahead to the pictures. If you’ve never read me, then it definitely won’t make sense, but if you’re familiar with me, then you know it’s just been another Wednesday.

I don’t know if y’all know me, but I’m Guilty Squid. I’m a self proclaimed Internet Superstar, Unofficial Spokesperson for Urban Spoon and the 2010 Internet Coroner. That last one was by popular vote. So people like me, dammit!

Best of all? I have real friends. On the Internet. And one of those is your Aunt Becky.

Aunt Becky was brave enough to let me at this place while she’s out of commission, because she worries about you people worrying. So I was all, “Dude, updates? I can post updates!” I mean, I’m totally baffled why y’all would even want updates on my day, but you know what? I was all, “Shut UP me. If Becky needs updates, then dammit, that’s totally what I’m going to give her people!”

Also, I’m ADHD and I write like I think so it’s not so much with the carefully thought out stuff, it’s all fast forward and sporadic and covered in crazy. In other words? Awesome.

Yesterday at lunch I gave my boss a disembodied head to drink his coffee from and I have to be honest, I’m totally getting a promotion probably just from that one gesture. Honestly, I’m not sure why I don’t have more friends with my smooth moods. The update here is that while in a meeting this morning, the boss texted me:

If giving your boss a disembodied head is wrong, then who wants to be right?

And then sometime hours after I wrote all that, I finally got away from work and stuff and things and was all, Dammit. This is why I don’t have friends. Because the updates? They didn’t come.

There were a lot of things that happened though. First, two of the geeks in the office wanted me to go to lunch with them, but I was totally planning to do some shopping at lunch so I sent the guys off to have lunch with each other. And then they were all, “You should have come to lunch with us.” which was nice and all, but then it was, “No, you really should have come with us.” and then I was all, “Wait. WHAT?” And then it was, “You help break the ice.” and that’s when it totally hit me. I’m the most social of this particular group. That’s never happened. Which just was probably not as full of the win as I feel like it is, but I’m totally pretending that it is.

But, the overall greatness is that I can totally give you the notes of the updates in a rundown form for Becky and even though this probably seems like it’s getting posted really late, I’m pretty sure it’s just the time difference. If you’re in Japan, then I’m posting this yesterday which would mean that Becky hadn’t even HAD her surgery yet so I’m the best friend ever. How lucky is she anyway? Pretty damn lucky, it would seem.

Anyway, the next thing I knew it was all late and I still hadn’t hit post, so y’all are just getting my notes.

So, yeah. I guess this was a fail. But good news, everyone! I get to come back and post AGAIN this week.

I’ll try to do better then, but to be honest? I’m sort of easily distracted, so that could end up as anything.

And Becky? I got you a little something.

Note to Dave: This is how you get out of trouble. Some bling with her name on it. You can have that advice for free. You're welcome.