It's Go Time

You know the feeling when you're running a long distance marathon and it's about five minutes past the moment you stopped to catch your breath thinking- "I can't do this. I can't make it-what the fuck was I thinking?" but then you thought-
"I've come too far to stop now. Fuck it." And you've pushed yourself to keep going-
even though you're tired,
(It's been such a long road)
and the biggest part of you wonders-
"What if those jerks up at the March of Dimes were sadists playing a cruel joke and there is no finish line?"
but you listen to that tiny voice-the one that runs underneath your fear that says-
"Just keep going. You're almost there."

Because what you have learned on this journey is how to ignore the clamour of noise from the part of you that tells you to give up,
 and that the world doesn't get to tell you who you are or what you can do anymore,
you have earned the right to tell the world,
so you keep going,
through tears and doubt and it starts raining and the guy who was supposed to be standing by the side of the road with those little paper cups of water isn't even there,
but you don't stop,
because the more you listen to the little voice the louder it becomes,
and suddenly you round a corner and see

the Motherfucking Finish Line.

You know that feeling?
Yeah. It's like that.

The Official preview of my book "Beauty Tips for the Bereaved" is out today. Here is the link-

Beauty Tips for the Bereaved

It's being published by a supergenius editor named Kayte VanScoy at Vivian Valentine Press. For those who don't know what an editor does- they are like the coach behind an Olympic athlete-it doesn't happen without their game plan.
We will be publishing the Kindle version on June 20th and launching a Kickstarter campaign to fund publishing the real, live paper books (!) then driving across the country this summer on a madcap book tour that *may* just start a revolution.
To stay tuned and follow all of these shenanigans go "like" the facebook page-

https://www.facebook.com/sunny.haralson#!/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved

And follow me on Twitter -
(I'm getting better at Twitter, ok? I'm working on it. I'm an introvert, God damn it.)

This book is not a memoir.
It's a Survival Guide.

If you woke up this morning wondering if you can make it through the day
this book will be the little paper cup of water popping up unexpectedly by the side of the road.

If you are thinking to yourself-"My life is so much more fucked than anyone else I know."
this book will show you how to dig through the wreckage and find something priceless.

If you are doing just fine, thank you, but need something to read on that long flight next week-

I will make you laugh
(even if you don't want to)

and make you cry
(sometimes that feels good too)

but I promise to give you something beautiful.
(Not to give anything away but it has a happy ending. It's currently unfolding right now.)

Because here is the thing no one tells you-
when you lose everything,
when you think you have nothing left to offer that anyone will value-
you can give the world your truth.

Dear World,
Here is my love letter to you.
Here is my story.

What to do when the Universe gives you an F

"I want to be healed of being an asshole." I told Francis the Healer the first time I met him.
And then I laughed, and he did too, saying- "Okay."

Even though I drove out to his tiny office in the middle of nowhere because I have an autoimmune disease of the thyroid, even though I am sick and his waiting room is filled with people in wheelchairs, I blurted that out- and then realized that on my list of afflictions-being a jerk is the one I want to remove first.
Have you ever met someone that makes you feel like they just get it? This guy is like that.
They light up the room. You almost feel like they are transmitting an electrical charge to you when they look at you.  When I was younger I called this phenomenon the "Jesus eyes." Something in their demeanor just pierces you.
Having met a few people who had "Jesus eyes" that turned out to be closer to David Koresh than Mother Teresa- I have always been wary of self appointed spiritual leaders.
But lately I've decided to be open minded-and as long as no one asks me to give away everything I own, put on an orange robe and join their cult-what can it hurt?
I'm beginning to think there might be a whole lot I don't know.

"Can you do that?" I asked him.
"No." He smiled, motioning for me to sit down. "I can't. But God can do anything."
He sat down in a chair behind me and placed one hand on my shoulder, telling me to breathe.
"Were you born like this? All happy and loving and shit?" I asked him, feeling his hand grow very warm on my back and staring straight ahead at a picture of an Indian guru named Sai Baba on the wall underneath a giant cross. The entire room was filled with symbols from different faiths -a statue of St. Francis sat next to a giant crystal, underneath a beautiful, rainbow colored illustration of Krishna cuddling a white bull- like an all you can eat religious buffet.
He laughed.
"Oh no! I used to get into fist fights all the time-I was a scrapper!" His hand continued to heat up on my back, I was sure he was searing the imprint of his fingers into my skin like a sunburn. "I had almost a hundred jobs. Then one day an angel came to me and said I was going to be a healer."

"Was that when you stopped being an asshole?"
"Well, sort of." He replied. "But it's a process. It took a long time. I had a woman come in here last week who was really mad about something-she was yelling-really upset. Ten years ago I would have given it right back to her, you know? Gotten caught up in it. But now I'm just like-I know, I know-" I can hear the smile in his voice and feel him nod behind me. "I told her-'Why don't you just sit down and get your healing, love?"
"Did she?" I asked.
"Yup."

"I want to help people." I said. "And I want to be kind."
"If you pray for that-you will receive it."
Then we were quiet. I didn't feel anything unusual-except for his spooky-hot hand on my back, and then I went home.
When I left, the volunteers that run the office told me to drink a lot of hot water for the rest of the day-which I ignored because I don't like following directions- and that the angels would come in my sleep and finish the work that Francis had started.
I thought maybe I'd have some cool angel dream-but the only one I remembered when I woke up the next morning had something to do with getting a job as a long distance truck driver hauling a semi full of housecats that had to be delivered by noon in Mexico City.
Once I felt dizzy afterwards, but that could have been low blood sugar. It feels peaceful sitting in the office of Francis the Healer-but nothing unusual or overwhelming ever happens.
I wonder if it's because I don't drink the hot water.

Maybe the act of driving 45 minutes and sitting in silence with a stranger to ask for patience and kindness and compassion is sending signals to my subconscious brain to rewire itself that way. (Did you know we can do that? Seriously-look it up.)
Or maybe prayer works because our synapses are connected to an energy field that simultaneously manifests both fate and free will in a pattern of such beautiful intricacy that we can only see glimpses of it when we are paying close attention.
Maybe science and religion are the same- rudimentary stories we tell ourselves-using words and symbols to point in the direction of what is ultimately unknowable as we try to satisfy the curiosity we feel as we stare into a night sky full of stars.



God, I love being right. Is there anything more satisfying than the moment the six year old inside you can thumb their nose at whoever is giving you a hard time and say, "See? I told you so!"

Human beings generally have an intense dislike for ambiguity. Certainty is safety-"I know that the tribe on the south side of the valley sucks because they came over here last week and took some of our cattle."
Forgetting that last year you did the same thing to those assholes north of the river.
But that was different-you had a really good reason.

Have you ever noticed that when someone you like tells you a story of being wronged by someone or something- it's easy to take their side?
"What a bitch!" We say. "I can't believe she did that to you!"
But when the bitch tells her side to people who like her- the story is completely different. Who's right?
It doesn't matter.
We carry our justifications around and they weigh us down like a dead body-preventing us from really knowing ourselves and each other- because when you can acknowledge your own flaws with love it opens your heart to understanding the mistakes that other people make too.
It's much easier to judge and categorize than feel compassion for someone who has hurt you. It's much easier to be angry and self righteous than allow yourself to feel sad, or rejected or screwed over or misunderstood. Our minds work hard to remember details of past fuckups on the part of the person who injured us, to establish a pattern and then describe it to others-so that maybe if everyone around us agrees "What a bitch! You're right!"
then maybe it won't hurt so much.
"I never liked her anyway." We can say.

Vindication is intoxicating, and having to admit you are wrong can feel like a price you have to pay. Some of us refuse to do it at all costs-as if it threatens the very existence of our identity.
I used to be like that. It sucked.
Then I grew up a little and made it a point to apologize-but grudgingly and only when I had to, or if the other person did it too. Each time this happened it felt like shaky ground, as though it cost me something dear, as though I was the only person in the world who had ever been wrong, as though I was giving away power and leaving myself diminished in some way.
The less I worry about being right and concentrate on dealing with the person in front of me with as much love as I can the happier I find myself.
No matter how many mistakes you make- no one gets a failing grade.
Life is not a test.
You don't have to be right all the time to graduate.

Who said we all have to be perfect to be awesome?
Frankly, I am tired of perfect people.

If that's all you want to bring to the party, just send me your LinkedIn profile instead. Then I don't have to change out of my sweatpants.

1. Most of the time there is no absolute "right" and "wrong"
2. When there is-and you find yourself in the latter category- so what?

What if you're wrong every day? Can you laugh at your silly self and keep on being a kickass person?
Yes, you can.

Caterpillars and Terrorists

 I’ve been driving to a shitty little office complex in Round Rock once a week to visit a man who calls himself “Francis the Healer.” Many other people make the same drive, taking off their shoes at the door they are ushered back to a waiting room full of chairs. We sit in silence, praying, until a volunteer calls out your name. You follow them back to another room where Francis, an ordinary looking, middle aged Irishman, shakes your hand.

He asks you what it is you want him to heal, you tell him, and then you sit down. He tells you to breathe deeply, then places his hands on your back and prays.

This is exactly the kind of thing I used to call bullshit on before I had a spiritual experience of my own. I looked at people who believed in God with a patronizing envy.  If only I could be simple minded enough to have faith in something, I thought.

For fifteen years I read books, went to church, meditated- looking for the answers. Why are we here? Is there something beyond what science can prove? What happens to us after we die?
I glimpsed it during a sweat lodge, every time I took mushrooms, and for a few seconds while I was helping a young woman die-but these epiphanies always faded, the moments of what I can only call "Knowing" never fully explained what is at the root of a universal longing of mankind to find meaning in our existence-and I sank back into malaise and doubt again each time. I spent years feeling completely certain that there was no meaning to our existence beyond what science could prove.

It's easy to do. For one thing- these experiences are difficult to talk about and incorporate into daily life. There are no words to accurately describe them, and the ones we do have have been co-opted by all the goofy sounding hippies who wrote books about their "spiritual journeys" in the seventies, so you find yourself struggling to describe what can only be sort of circled around and hinted at- and you receive one of two reactions-

The people who pat your hand with sympathetic eyes- "I think that's so special that you had a spiritual experience, sweetie." (Thinking- Poor thing-she's lost her mind.)

And those who listen and nod with their eyes shining, who brim with enthusiasm as you struggle to express yourself, responding finally with- "I know."

When this happens-there is a moment when you look into each others eyes-a connection happens.
It could be described as-
"We are One."
Its a recognition of  the observer inside of you that has been with us since birth silently recording, noticing and simply being behind the maelstrom of incessant, conscious thought that we drives us like whitewater rapids from one moment to the next-
it's what the Bag Vad Gita calls "the language beyond the mind."
It is the part of you that knows that there is no such thing as time,
 the empty space that is both nothing and the essence of you,
 the part of you that is immortal, with no beginning and no end.
The part of you that is God.

( Right now-half of you are smiling because you get it. Half of you think I have gone off the deep end.)

The difference lies in experience-if you haven't had it yet the words are meaningless, the concepts are intellectual constructs that exist as ideas separate from you.
If you have- you already know what I'm talking about-and you see the expression of it everywhere. You live and breathe this knowing.
It is you, and you are it.


The world that we live in is incredibly, well, worldy. We are preoccupied with wanting and buying and having to a level that borders on psychosis. We lull our conscious minds to sleep with television and technology and manufacture dramas and problems and crises to distract us from waking up. We are so afraid-of being judged, of being unloved, of being unworthy, of failure, of loss, of growing old, of dying, of being ugly, alone, overweight, embarrassed, proven wrong, of being diminished in some way-
and we spend so much time and energy trying to avoid these things that we lose sight of the true nature of who we are and what we came here to do. I know- I have done this my entire life- and I would have continued to slumber and react and hide if something wonderful hadn't happened to me.


First- I was given the gift of illness.
As my father slowly deteriorated into the madness and pain of liver failure, I developed a difficult to diagnose thyroid problem. I was so sick I thought I was dying too. I responded with panic- I threw money at it, going to specialists until my savings was exhausted. I got angry at everyone around me. I went crazy too-because I was faced with circumstances I desperately didn't want and couldn't control. In fact- the more I tried to escape my pain the more intense it became until finally, kicking and screaming, I surrendered to it.


2.  I was given the gift of poverty.
If you have never been poor-you probably think it's something to be avoided at all costs- and I'm not contradicting that. There is nothing glorious or noble about not having enough. Poverty is terrifying. Money represents power, safety and status.
But- even though all of the fictional sit com families you see on TV are upper middle class or wealthy-most of the world lives on a knifes edge. The difference is that in this country we all walk around pretending to be successful. There is a shame to having financial trouble- which starts to become funny when you wake up and realize that money isn't real.

Let me say that again- money isn't real.

It's a concept we came up with to represent energy. Now you don't have to bring your goat to the mall to trade for your new tank top at Forever 21- we use this idea we invented as a stand in. It used to be coins, then paper, now it's a little card that records numbers in a computer. Same shit.
It's not you.
If you have a high number of fictional units to measure human energy-that's awesome.
If you have none-you're still you.
And that "you" is the same being of light, love and potential that you were yesterday before the stock market crashed.
I'm not saying we don't all need to work or that you shouldn't bother to ask for a raise. I'm telling you that it doesn't define your worth or value as a human being.
Losing everything is a gift because you can no longer use external constructs to define who you are.

"Having" is not "being," folks.

3. I was given the gift of being wrong.
In every Hollywood movie something predictable happens. The  bad guys lose. Some terrible punishment happens to them-they fall off a cliff into an abyss, they are proven wrong before their community and slink off in humiliation while the "good" guys are vindicated, everyone rallying around them in celebration. This is justice, we are told.
So when you fail-especially if it's in some spectacular, public way- does that mean you're "bad"?
It can very much feel that way.
"This is happening to me because I'm a bad person" I used to think, lying alone in my FEMA trailer in the dark.
After my dad died I saw that we are all, each one of us, so loved. I realized that all of the things that seemed so deadly serious to me were actually silly and light and inconsequential.

I was given this-in a split second- and it irrevocably changed my life-
We are all One.
There is power, energy, a force-whatever you call it-that makes up the substance of every spinning particle in the universe and its very substance by definition is this thing we call 'love.' We are cherished and known completely by this consciousness-every being on the earth-because it is us.
We are never alone.
There are no mistakes.
There are only opportunities to learn about ourselves and speed up the process of waking up to the beauty and power of what we really are.
Despite the pain of being alive, even though the world is still full of horror and suffering, it is happening at an exponential rate. Human beings are beginning to realize their inherent unity-and the need to separate experiences into "good" or "bad" will fade out.
"But what about consequences, punishment, the Boston Marathon bombers?" you're thinking.
Yes, in the grand scheme of things- even though their actions are horrific and wrong and we have to protect our children from maniacs-even tragedy is part of a vast, intricate pattern of meaning that we are too small to understand, and even terrorists are loved by God.
Whether you call it -the Universe, Energy, Allah, Yahweh, Jesus, the Divine Mother-
that's how absolute this is.
No matter how fucked up you are, no matter what you do-God loves you.
When you really start to get that-how can you not respond by loving everyone else?
The question becomes one presented to us again and again by visionaries throughout history-
"Who am I to judge?"

Let me ask you a question.
If someone in your office leaves the paste out-do you eat it?
No? You haven't done that since kindergarten?
Why?
Is it because you are afraid of being punished? Is there a law against it?
No.
It's because- Why the fuck would you? You outgrew that.

And as we wake up, the human race is beginning to see that hurting others is the same as hurting ourselves.
We are waking up to our true nature-
the very substance of which is love.

But here is the thing that no one tells you about waking up-
it's a long, messy process riddled with doubt and confusion.
Even if you are lucky enough to be leveled by loss and tragedy-
even if you are actually presented with a burning bush or a spectacular message from the beyond-
sooner or later you will fall on your face.
You will still get angry
you may still snap at your kids or flip some asshole the bird on the Interstate
you may still struggle with low self esteem
you may even still dip into a misery so dark and deep you wish you were dead-
it's a process.

I still lose hope.
But each time this happens I find it comes back to me like a boomerang if I simply ask it to.
The dips become shallower, the holes I once fell into are easier to climb out of every time.
I think that this process of transformation will continue until I die.
I will wake up-
stay in that conscious space for a while
fall down
feel lost
doubt that it's real for a while
and then pick the thread back up again.
Each time it gets easier
because once the process has begun you can never go back.
The caterpillar doesn't know it's becoming a butterfly when it sleeps in the chrysalis- it only knows it's changing in a fundamental way that feels inevitable.
That doesn't mean it isn't real.

So I try to write about it-even thought I know it makes me sound crazy, and I seek out people like Francis the Healer-because what I see when I look into his eyes resonates with the butterfly taking shape in some mysterious place that exists inside of me and everyone else.
When my heart-which was broken open by suffering and loss and shame-begins to close in judgement of someone I gently remind myself to love.
Love everyone.
Forgive everyone.
Forgive yourself.
But most of all-
just love.

Waves of Awesome

Apparently there is a lot more to publishing a book than me typing in the last word, throwing up my hands and yelling, "I'm done, yall! Hooray!"
That's annoying. Because I want everything that is good that is ever going to occur in my life to happen RIGHT NOW and then continue to emit waves of awesomeness I can just keep riding on forever. Sometimes I wonder if that is already happening and I am spoiled and ungrateful ( "Oh my God!" says the woman from the Sudan. "You have running water? Bitch -what are you complaining about?)
Other times I feel like Job, wandering around by myself in the desert wondering why God is such a big, fat jerk but then I remember that Job didn't have Cheetos or friends with unlimited cable and then I stop whining about it and get back to working on making life better.
Each time I lose the thread I panic and think I will never find it again.
And then I do.
I'm working on remembering that.

It's been Spring Break for two weeks now-which has been wonderful because Ruby and I like doing the same things-watching She-Ra, sewing, and eating mint chocolate chip ice cream-
and harrowing because I have the child who runs over and sticks her foot into the hole when I say "Stay away from that hole over there!"
This morning I was sitting on the porch drinking my coffee when she opened the trailer door waving two empty cigarette packs that she'd taken out of the trash and drew faces on with a Sharpie.

"I'm Mrs. Smokes!" She made one cigarette pack-doll say.
"I'm Dr. Cola!" Replied the pack who had a large, curly mustache. Then Dr. Cola started to make out with Mrs. Smokes and I got all uncomfortable, even though Ruby told me-

"It's okay they're married now" as she smushed the two cellophaned boxes together-
because I am so far away from who I was the day I found out I was pregnant-

"I'm going to hand carve all of her toys out of organic wood and teach her to weave and play the harp instead of watch TV-
so I told her to quit playing with the cigarette pack people and check on her circus mice.

One of them had ten babies last week. I let that happen deliberately- figuring that once they are big enough to discern their sex I will take all of the boy mice up to Petco in my pocket and sneak them back into the "Boy" cage-like shoplifting in reverse. It isn't a crime. I checked.

So she comes back out with 10 squirming baby mice in her hands and dumps them into my tank top before I can say anything because I'm still not awake yet and no one ever expects to have that happen- not really.

And I'm not wearing a bra so the mice are just crawling around in there. And I realize just how much I need a break from Spring Break when I think this thought-

"I just don't want to get up."

I just want to keep drinking my coffee, sitting on the porch outside my FEMA trailer in the morning sun-waving Hello to Jimmy the dwarf and the guy who walks around the park playing the accordion and the Raccoon Man and the punk rock girl and Johnny Cat -

"Hey God! You're a big, fat jerk!" I think as the tiny rodents crawl around in my boobs and my six year old dances around the trailer park forcing two cigarette packs to do unspeakable things to each other-
"How come it's taking so long for me to get my book published, damn it?"
and then I smile-
"This is awesome."

The Mating Habits of the Southwestern Middle Aged North American Divorced Male

Due to drastic changes in habitat, diet, tribal customs and migratory habits; the mating rituals of the Western Middle-aged, Upper-Middle Class Divorced Male have changed dramatically in recent decades.

Quick to adapt to abrupt shifts in their environment, the American male has been challenged by a sudden, confusing epidemic of role reversal among its sexually mature breeding population. When the female mysteriously decided to begin making trips out into the world to bring home grubs of her own, she also began to expect him to spend an equal amount of time in the nest taking care of their young

 "Since when did this become my job?" he thinks, as he listens to the incessant, high pitched chirping day and night day and night, knowing his father would have been down at the pub watching the game after a long day of digging for worms.

Instead of waiting meekly at home for the male to return, the female demands to be an equal partner, pecking him with merciless violence until he agrees to stay in the nest every Friday night so she can go to her Book Club. She is fearless now, she can fly off at any moment and still survive. It terrifies him.

Still, behind its tough, emotionless exterior-the American male is one of the most sensitive, loyal, and idealistic of Mother Natures creatures. He cheerfully adapts to whatever circumstances his environment throws at him. When he is laid off from from the anthill due to cutbacks in larvae production, he swallows his pride and stays home with the young while the female goes out to happy hour with her boss.
The male accepts his new, diminished role; allowing the female to direct how the nest is built, his manner of dress, his schedule, and the correct way to fold all of the tiny, useless matching purple towels in the guest bathroom. In exchange-he receives sporadic sexual access and experiences a deeper bond with his offspring, since he is now required to spend more time and resources ensuring their survival than before. Therefore, when the female comes home, announces she is leaving him for her boss, kicks him out of the nest and limits his access to the kids-he is just that more bitter when he has to bring half of the worms he scavenged to the nest every two weeks and give them to his former mate.

"Oh hey Roger" he says awkwardly. "Is Joanna here?" and waits at the door as his wifes old boss turns around to look for her in the back of the nest. She hops out wrapped in a little towel and cocks her head at him, feathers still wet from her bath.

"For God's sake Joanna" he chirps in a low tone of voice "The kids are right over there watching that chrysalis open. Put some clothes on."


And she raises all of her feathers and screeches and flaps her wings in his face so he takes off, You get to deal with that now, he mentally tells Roger. Good Luck, buddy!



And when he finally gets back to his tiny, barely furnished nest on the edge of the forest-the only place he can afford to live now-he thinks "I am never making that mistake again. From now on I'm a free bird."


Which is why we are now seeing an explosion in population numbers of Permanently Single Upper Middle Class, Middle Aged North American Males- which has led to an equally large number of Cynical, Lonely Middle-Aged North American Females. The balance has been disrupted, the old rules don't apply anymore and the creatures have become confused-unsure of what they want and afraid-sending pictures of their genitals to the opposite sex via text message.


Presented with an ever increasing number of options for mates online, both male and female become highly critical and easily dissatisfied. They pair bond within weeks and lose interest in each other just as quickly. Their selection of available partners is suddenly not constrained by proximity. There is no scarcity of females to compete over. Without even leaving their nests they can carry on three different virtual courtship rituals at once via text while the chicks watch The Butterfly Channel in the other room.


 Courtship feeding, a universal behavior observed in populations in every habitat since the divorced male was discovered by Joanna Kramer in 1979, have also been disrupted by the change in habitat. Instead of currying favor with his potential mate by presenting her with offerings of food, sweets or long pieces of glittering string to feather her nest-he will sit passively when she reaches into her purse at the end of the meal-a universal gesture the female developed to communicate that she is capable of obtaining her own delicious meal of insects and grubs. Instead of pushing her credit card away and insisting that she accept his gesture -"Here, let me take care of this. I am capable of providing you with extra nourishment during the winter- if you will allow me to fertilize your egg later after a few glasses wine."-he allows her to split the bill- which confuses her.


"What is this all about?" she wonders "These motherfuckers used to swoop in from all over the forest and fight over which one got to hand me a cutworm. What happened?"

The male, reluctant to invest any resources into a female again, is emboldened by the sudden realization that-even though they are still capable of producing offspring-the North American female enjoys less power than her younger counterparts after she has already hatched a few chicks from a previous mate. It requires just a fraction of the effort he was required to spend before to get invited back to her nest.

He doesn't even have to go out to the telephone wire every night and risk being rejected. He doesn't have to work at receiving his prize at all, in fact.

Although it's not readily apparent to the untrained observer, the male is also suffering from the sudden disruption of the rules. Mating without challenge, initiating contact without risk and receiving sexual access without exerting any effort further atrophies his already diminished masculinity. What we obtain through risk and struggle is valued ten times over that which is handed to us casually.

Because there is no scarcity of mates, they all begin to seem alike. They are easy to meet and easier to discard in search for the next one- a process that becomes more similar to commerce than romance as both males and females sip tiny glasses of wine while they check their phones surreptitiously at dinner, always looking for a better deal.

White Woman seeks Stock Car Driver for a Ride out of the Apocalypse

I can hear a Bob Wills song as we pull into the wide gravel parking lot.

"Get it off of me!" I try to pull it off me but its claws are stuck like burrs in my dress "It's doing that creepy kneading/nursing thing. It makes me uncomfortable."

"Here Mabel" she croons, and deposits it into the backseat.

"Why is the cat in the car again?" I have just now thought to ask.

"Long story" she says. I've found it's best not to ask too many questions so I just nod and we go inside. The band is good but no one is dancing. We get our drinks and sit down.

"Can I ask you a question?" Coco pops a cherry into her mouth and points a tiny hot pink sword at me. I nod to the beat of the music. My sunglasses are still on. So what?
 "When did you stop dancing?"
I frown. "I don't know. What the fuck happened to me man?"
"Go ask one of those cowboys over there" she nudges me.

I want to-
They will say no and you will feel stupid, no one wants to dance with you

"Fuck this. I used to be the who jumped out and danced by myself until everyone else joined in" I grab a cowboy, he does not say No.
 I am twirled around until I am spinning, breathless, laughing, beautiful by the time the song ends. Then I ask another, and another-borrowing the old men from their wives and sweet talking the young ones into giving it a try.
As the bar closes we walk past two guys with dreadlocks sitting in plastic lawn chairs by the fence. One of them nods towards us in greeting and passes a joint to his buddy.

As we put on our seatbelts I hear him through the open window -
"Look. She got a cat in the car."
"No, man" his friend says "It is not possible."
"Yah tis! Look!" he stands a little pointing.
"White women" he slaps his knee "They crazy, man!"

-----------------------------------------------------

I just found out that this Nascar race for rich people called Formula One is being held just outside of Austin this week. Apparently people have been talking about this since the track was built for it, which was a while ago, but since I don't watch TV and I only dimly pay attention to your Facebook posts I didn't know about it until 100,000 people with vaguely European accents and sporty leather jackets arrived in town.

Question- "Why is it taking me an hour to travel three blocks down Lamar street?
Answer- "A whole bunch of people from Monaco need to pick up one of the many products carried by Whole Foods Market that contain acai berries for their hangovers."
Oh.
Okay.

Coco called to warn me on Wednesday. I was sick in bed, passing in and out of a feverish delirium.
"You better get over here" she warned. "I've stocked up on food and water. They say the city is going to run out."
"I'm sick." I told her "I can't move."
"I have cable"
That was all she had to say.
I don't watch TV anymore because I have other stuff I like to do but when I am sick it becomes addictive, like sucking on a crack rock made out of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire.

The next day during the Terminator marathon she kept looking at her phone.
"Everyone is posting on Facebook that it's like a war zone out there!" she says.

I am going to OWN these people when the Apocalypse comes, I think.

 "OMG traffic sucks, yall! It's a war zone!" posts Tiffany Rasberry in her status update bar as she "checks in" at 6th and Lamar.

I will be like a God to you, Tiffany. I realize suddenly. When it is a real war zone out there I will show you how to make a Molotov cocktail and lead all 57 of our mutual Facebook friends out of a ruined city like La Femme Nikita. In return your family will pay tribute to me as your leader for several generations to come. 

The only thing I know about Nascar is that they wear a lot of vests that zip up the front and all of my relatives, who are also fond of vests, seem to really enjoy it. The only thing I know about Formula One is that a fleet of dilettantes  follow it around like the white people with dreadlocks do with that band Phish and someone said the engines are made like fighter jets with shark fins. Which makes me imagine them as the Jetsons, zipping around  the globe in their personal aviation devices to watch cars drive around a track fast enough to break the sound barrier, and I decide that I would go to that party if I was invited.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

I have been writing since 9 this morning. It's two thirty in the morning now. I am finishing my book.

I'm 37 years old. I am a single mother who lives in a trailer. I don't know where the rent is going to come from, but I am finishing my book.

I may, or may not, have gone crazy; either way I am finishing my book.

Because I know something.

At midnight I go down Congress to the Continental Club and get a tequila shot. A swing band is playing so I make all the cowboys dance with me for an hour before I go back home to write.  A young man with a cheerful smile and jaunty newsboy cap named Dash tells me as we dance that he is one of those guys that run out to the car and change out the tires real quick during the Formula One races.

"That's your whole job?" I ask "And you fly around the world all year doing it?"

 He nods.

 How do these people get all these cool jobs?

Later he stands outside with me for a smoke.

"Tell me some crazy story about going around the world with a circus like that" I command.

"Nah, I got a crazy story for you" he says, grinning at me.

( Leprachaun  I always think, then feel bad. Is that racism? Can I say the thing about 'Me Lucky Charms?' Or is that ethnocentric? I don't know)

"Tell me Lucky!" I cheer.

"When I was twenty two I got into an accident doing wheelies on me motorbike and broke me back. The doctors said I wouldn't walk again and look a' me now!" He twirls a little, like an adorable chimneysweep.

"Wow" I say, and we catch each others eyes. "You knew from the minute they told you that they were wrong? You knew you would recover."

"I never doubted it for a second" he says in recognition.

"Now you're country dancing with a pretty girl in Austin, Texas" I tell him, and he laughs.

"I just knew it. I knew I would walk again." he repeats.

"Yes" I smile as I leave him to go home and write "I know what you mean."

Chocolate and Cuckoo Clocks

Dear World- This blog post is now part of my new book so I took it down because I don't want to be a jerk and ruin it for you-
you're welcome
a preview of this awesomeness that includes a bunch of illustrations I drew all by myself
is available to download for 99 cents on Amazon by clicking here-
Beauty Tips for the Bereaved

Or you can go "like" our facebook page and read the preview for free by clicking here-
https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl

Blessings, Patricia

Dear World- This blog post is now part of my new book so I took it down because I don't want to be a jerk and ruin it for you-

you're welcome

a preview of this awesomeness that includes a bunch of illustrations I drew all by myself

is available to download for 99 cents on Amazon by clicking here-

Beauty Tips for the Bereaved

Or you can go "like" our facebook page and read the preview for free by clicking here-

https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl

This book is not a memoir.

It's a Survival Guide.

If you woke up this morning wondering if you can make it through the day

this book will be the little paper cup of water popping up unexpectedly by the side of the road.

If you are thinking to yourself-"My life is so much more fucked than anyone else I know."

this book will show you how to dig through the wreckage and find something priceless.

If you are doing just fine, thank you, but need something to read on that long flight next week-

I will make you laugh

(even if you don't want to)

and make you cry

(sometimes that feels good too)

but I promise to give you something beautiful.

(Not to give anything away but it has a happy ending. It's currently unfolding right now.)

Because here is the thing no one tells you-

when you lose everything,

when you think you have nothing left to offer that anyone will value-

you can give the world your truth.

Dear World,

Here is my love letter to you.

Here is my story.

 

For real

My father came back from the dead to give me some career advice the other night. But that's a story for another time.

I woke up the next morning and realized I have lost nothing. I have bird songs.


Dear World- The rest of this blog post is now part of my new book so I took it down because I don't want to be a jerk and ruin it for you-

you're welcome

a preview of this awesomeness that includes a bunch of illustrations I drew all by myself

is available to download for 99 cents on Amazon by clicking here-

Beauty Tips for the Bereaved

Or you can go "like" our facebook page and read the preview for free by clicking here-
https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl

This book is not a memoir.

It's a Survival Guide.

If you woke up this morning wondering if you can make it through the day

this book will be the little paper cup of water popping up unexpectedly by the side of the road.

If you are thinking to yourself-"My life is so much more fucked than anyone else I know."

this book will show you how to dig through the wreckage and find something priceless.

If you are doing just fine, thank you, but need something to read on that long flight next week-

I will make you laugh

(even if you don't want to)

and make you cry

(sometimes that feels good too)

but I promise to give you something beautiful.

(Not to give anything away but it has a happy ending. It's currently unfolding right now.)

Because here is the thing no one tells you-

when you lose everything,

when you think you have nothing left to offer that anyone will value-

you can give the world your truth.

Dear World,

Here is my love letter to you.

Here is my story.

I wonder who does the laundry at Castle Greyskull?

Dear World- This blog post is now part of my new book so I took it down because I don't want to be a jerk and ruin it for you-
you're welcome
a preview of this awesomeness that includes a bunch of illustrations I drew all by myself
is available to download for 99 cents on Amazon by clicking here-
Beauty Tips for the Bereaved
Or you can go "like" our facebook page and read the preview for free by clicking here-
https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl

 

 

This book is not a memoir.
It's a Survival Guide.
If you woke up this morning wondering if you can make it through the day
this book will be the little paper cup of water popping up unexpectedly by the side of the road.
If you are thinking to yourself-"My life is so much more fucked than anyone else I know."
this book will show you how to dig through the wreckage and find something priceless.
If you are doing just fine, thank you, but need something to read on that long flight next week-
I will make you laugh
(even if you don't want to)
and make you cry
(sometimes that feels good too)
but I promise to give you something beautiful.
(Not to give anything away but it has a happy ending. It's currently unfolding right now.)
Because here is the thing no one tells you-
when you lose everything,
when you think you have nothing left to offer that anyone will value-
you can give the world your truth.
Dear World,
Here is my love letter to you.
Here is my story.

 

It's Your Movie

Dear World- This blog post is now part of my new book so I took it down because I don't want to be a jerk and ruin it for you-
you're welcome
a preview of this awesomeness that includes a bunch of illustrations I drew all by myself
is available to download for 99 cents on Amazon by clicking here-
Beauty Tips for the Bereaved
Or you can go "like" our facebook page and read the preview for free by clicking here-
https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl

 

                                                          This book is not a memoir.
It's a Survival Guide.
If you woke up this morning wondering if you can make it through the day
this book will be the little paper cup of water popping up unexpectedly by the side of the road.
If you are thinking to yourself-"My life is so much more fucked than anyone else I know."
this book will show you how to dig through the wreckage and find something priceless.
If you are doing just fine, thank you, but need something to read on that long flight next week-
I will make you laugh
(even if you don't want to)
and make you cry
(sometimes that feels good too)
but I promise to give you something beautiful.
(Not to give anything away but it has a happy ending. It's currently unfolding right now.)
Because here is the thing no one tells you-
when you lose everything,
when you think you have nothing left to offer that anyone will value-
you can give the world your truth.
Dear World,
Here is my love letter to you.
Here is my story.

 

There is no Groupon for the Apocalypse

Dear World- This blog post is now part of my new book so I took it down because I don't want to be a jerk and ruin it for you-

you're welcome

a preview of this awesomeness that includes a bunch of illustrations I drew all by myself

is available to download for 99 cents on Amazon by clicking here-

Beauty Tips for the Bereaved

Or you can go "like" our facebook page and read the preview for free by clicking here-
https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl

This book is not a memoir.

It's a Survival Guide.

If you woke up this morning wondering if you can make it through the day

this book will be the little paper cup of water popping up unexpectedly by the side of the road.

If you are thinking to yourself-"My life is so much more fucked than anyone else I know."

this book will show you how to dig through the wreckage and find something priceless.

If you are doing just fine, thank you, but need something to read on that long flight next week-

I will make you laugh

(even if you don't want to)

and make you cry

(sometimes that feels good too)

but I promise to give you something beautiful.

(Not to give anything away but it has a happy ending. It's currently unfolding right now.)

Because here is the thing no one tells you-

when you lose everything,

when you think you have nothing left to offer that anyone will value-

you can give the world your truth.

Dear World,

Here is my love letter to you.

Here is my story.