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The Bang Bang Theories


So. Much. Has happened, Reader, and I’ve had plans to tell you stories about it all because of course it’s fun to bring you along on my Misfit Life with me, but somewhere along the lines here I’ve dropped off the Interwebs, mostly because have I mentioned I’m living like a gypsy lately and/or driving a lot lot lot of my day? and then Trixie Bang Bang Stories just never get told.  I’m not sure I’m ever going to get to them, either.

Shewee, that was a long opener to tell you nothing.

So I’ve been living in Florida for pert near a month now, a little longer actually because it’s been another week of work since I’ve gone back home over the 4th of July.

Time. Flies. By.  I have worked 5 weeks already, and wow, I cannot even believe it.

I really like my job. It has had it’s hiccups, mostly tech-related and then the difficulty of not knowing what you don’t know, so I don’t know. Everything takes longer when you don’t know.

I’ve been looking at rentals on and off. The cute enough stuff costs more than my Ohio Mortgage.

What I want is this:

What I can afford is this:

Which frankly just looks like some place where I’m going to be on this episode of Forensic Files:  “Girl* Checks out Camper, Never Seen Again, Until Years Later a Break in the Case Fingers** Her Killer.”

*in my Missing Persons episode, I would like to be referred to as a Girl, please – very youthful and vibrant while we’re making things up here –  and not an elderly lady who should have known better than to 1/ think she could live in a beatdown camper and actually get a restful night of sleep on that mattress, the fluids left behind only the good lawd knows, and 2/ ….well, I don’t know what number 2 is, other than it might actually have left stains on that bed at some point.

**because someone found pieces of my fingers somewhere, like in the pooping container in this camper.

What the fuck is up with that bathroom? i’ve been in tiny bathrooms, I’ve cruise-shipped enough to know the poopers can be close to the sinks, but comeon. That “vanity” is where I’m going to be getting ready in the morning? Nope.

So I still haven’t figured it out, but I’m trying to Badass what I want into existence: The nice clean place, furnished, near the water, for $700/all-in per month. Work with me, Reader, and send those vibes out to the Universe on my behalf. Oh, p.s., must love cats. The rental people, not you to send the good juju for me. Except it’s preferred if you also love cats, too, because they are soft.

I started this two hours ago, and am bound and determined to have something posted to force myself into Stella, Get Your Groove Back, and now with the Florida Sweat running down my back I believe I am going to throw on my suit and throw myself into the pyoool.



Some Like It Hot

It’s beginning to sound like all I do is whine and complain about my sorry sorry lot in life, having to live in Florida, in a big house that I’m not paying for, and wah wah poor me.

It’s not all wah wah. Some. But not all.

Today I decided to harness the magic of Sunday and made my own happiness.

I took myself to the picture show down at the old CinemaWorld, which let me just say in more wah wah news, it’s not nearly as nice as my theater back home. However! I got a ticket and a popcorn and plopped myself down in a nice enough seat and watched the new release Yesterday, which made me tear up out of the sheer joy of that movie.

On the way home I sleuthed around this development until I located the damn pool.  I’ve been here since the 8th and enough is enough, find the damn pool already, Me. So I did, and it looked the the perfect place to park my ass for a few hours.

I drove home to throw my suit on and hop to, except I was tired, and I’m rightfully so blaming the heat, so instead I took a short forty winks.

Speaking of this heat, some nutball was out RUNNING in this heat at 1 o’clock in the heat of the god-forsaken day,

I mean, it was NINETY EIGHT DEGREES with oppressive humidity!!

It was so absurd I took a PHOTO while DRIVING sssshhhh don’t tell Johnny Law or my mom (ps she’s dead and isn’t there to listen, you tattle tale), it was just that absurd. And it was a somewhat safe maneuver – my photo, not nutzo’s running – because there was no traffic and it was one hot second only.

I feel the need to clarify; it is a very unusual circumstance for me to take a photo while driving. So don’t leave me any admonishing comments. Save it for my really bad behavior.

Anyway, where was I?

The day. Something something, happiness. I don’t know. I’ve lost my train of thought and all my wah wah brain can think of is I need to get to sleep, work is coming in short course.

Let me leave you with this. It was okay today. I saw a movie. I ate some really good cantaloupe. We made ribeyes for dinner which was the deal of the year at $13 for 2,  and we had fresh corn on the cob so hahah Ohio, who isn’t even knee-high yet. I did some other stuff, and nature was involved, but who cares.

Wait, I guess I care a little bit. Enough to raise the question, what kinda tree is this? Is it a fruit? Is it a tropical pine cone?? What?

Should I put it in my mouth is the question, Reader. And don’t say yes just because you want to poison me. That’s not very friendly or nice. And I will check it out for myself. Probably. Some days maybe death by kumquat would be okay. But not usually. Because there might be a movie, a meal and a little pool time right around the bend.

Eye On The Prize

I don’t know at all actually am almost certain that a Florida Bug bit me below my eye and somehow injected me with a sacfull of Baby Bugs right in the corner of my eyeball, where they are at this very moment incubating and will erupt and – in this order – 1/ blind me and 2/ it won’t matter if I’m blind because if that does actually happen I will be d.e.a.d from a heart attack directly after the babies start spilling from my face.

Current state of my peeper is that it is itchy and red and when I took a photo of it to see it up close for myself and to show you, Reader, because it’s time for some full frontal between us, well, let’s just say it’s the only illogical logical explanation.

A picture is worth 300 words, so see for yourself:

I have been EATEN. UP. with bug bites this past week or so.  In between all the very showoffy freckles on my face, I’ve got lumps that either need to be seen by Dr. Pimple Popper MD or I have been bitten by some assholie Florida-type no-see-ums-sandflee-mosquito-maybe-part-gecko-because-they-are-everywhere-and-have-probably-mated-with-a-biter type bugs.

Also, those lumpy lumps are all over my arms and legs, too, and a lot on my feet and ankles and what the fuck, Reader.  No one told me Florida was so bitey. Not one warning of this, Reader, and for that, I blame you, because one of you must have known.


Take The Cake

Reader, I hear you: Enough with the ocean pix, Bang Bang.  We all know what the ocean looks like by now.  

Except Shut It, Reader, because sometimes this is all I have right now.  A reminder of the Pretty Things I get to see if I’m not too lazy too busy to go get beachy.

Things were touch and go last week.  I haven’t been writing much just because I haven’t really had as much opportunity as one might imagine. This gypsy lifestyle keeps me on the go, packing and unpacking and finding out exactly what I need to get by with, which in all honestly has become much much less.

It’s a lot of minimal makeup, hair pulled up because did I mention it’s hot?, a few outfits I keep recycling, and the loss of who gives any fucks about my fat arms, I’m wearing sleeveless shirts because did I mention it’s hot.

And oh, p.s., my freckles have said HELLO, Florida Trixie, we plan on sticking around very prominently on your face and arms and any other areas you plan on exposing to the sun. Which brings me to this week’s living arrangements, in which I’ve had many many parts exposed to the great outdoors, because there’s an outdoor shower and I’ve probably offended all sorts of neighbors but stop looking then.

I’m petsitting for a co-worker this week. Yes, I can’t believe she trusts me either after knowing me a week, but it’s working out nicely. She lives in New Smyrna and it’s 10 minutes to work, and I can come home and cook dinner, pack stuff for lunch, make a cocktail or three, get out of the shower and walk naked to the room to get dressed if I wish.

Last week I gave the Airbnb a good college try, and while it was fine, Reader, just fine, I had a Monday Night Breakdown where I mostly cried all night until I took myself out for a $19.95 lobster dinner and two mugs of beer.  It’s just awkward. It’s weird to go into someone else’s house and walk in the living room and they’re eating their dinner in front of the telly, and I just try to act small and go to the bedroom. It’s been difficult living very small, without my things, without my people or my cats, and being happy about it. Plus learning a new job on top of all that, which is stressful under the best of circumstances. So yeah, I had a Crying Night last week.  I was ready to pack it up and come home just because.

But then things got better, as they are wont to do if you just wait it out. I mean, they don’t always get better just by waiting it out, but I had to at least muster through it and pretend I’m a big brave girl.

The problem with the Airbnb is that it’s just a room, no private entrance, with a shelf in the fridge (and a private bath, because that’s non-negotiable) – and well, basically I need some sort of my own space or it’s not going to work. I’m fiddy two. While I’m all for that college trying, I’m well beyond the college kid age and am not into roommating with strangers. Let’s face facts, I – at times – barely tolerated living with My Mister and I could do whatever the hell I wanted in that scenario.

I want to control the air conditioning temperature. I want the slice of cake in the fridge to be MINE, and not some other guy’s cake. I want to shower and then walk naked into my room to get dressed. Those things, and other things. I just want to scratch and fart and whatever in my own space. Staying at my dads lets me do All The Things, except control the a/c, but mostly it’s okay.

Anyway, I’ve gotten totally off track here, and now I don’t know where I was going with this other than I’m right now eating my own slice of cake that I bought for my own self and I’m sitting on the couch watching what I want to watch on t.v., and writing some nonsense, and the air is down to seventy-damn-four (at home it would be 72), so little victories. It almost feels like normal except I’m eaten up with giant bug bites all over my body and I don’t have my kittehs, who I’ve been told are behaving very poorly at home and I’m looking forward to getting back next week and kissing their whiskers off.

I don’t know. I was supposed to write something not this, but this is what came out. Other things have happened and I promise to share the good spots and not just whining complaining spots. Pinky swearsies. If you’re in Cle over the 4th, let’s see each other. I will maybe bake you a cake, just because I can.



Ducky Lucky

Reeeeder!! I miss this fella:

I’m pretending I’m on a long vacation without the luxury hotel amenities, overpriced drinks and frigid a/c temps that I’m partial to and my sweaty neck* misses.

*yes, neck, my neck is more sweaty than any of my other parts. it’s great and super sexy if you’re into really damp necks. which i’m not, so i’m not turning myself on at all.

It’s a hard sell to myself, particularly* when my ass is going numb during my 3-hour roundtrip commute.

*i always every single time can’t spell the word “particularly” without looking it up, and in fact I’m so wrong about it that spellcheck can’t even give me a recommendation. it’s ducking** frustrating.

**lol, iPhone, I just made fun of you!

Speaking of ducking, these gals*** live here on the pond at The Mansh**** and I’ve been obsessed with Blanche***** and Dorothy and making them love me.

***they may or may not be gals. i’m not here to question how they identify.  but in my mind, they’re gals for all the live long days because they have cute little waddles.

****I’ve just decided right now to name where I’m staying “the mansh” because it’s a mini-mansion so why not. it needed a name or how else will you know what the where I’m speaking about in these stories. right at this moment I’m at the mansh. tomorrow i’ll be somewhere else. we’ll get to that.

*****yes, i’ve named the duck ducks blanche and dorothy because i’m nothing if not predictable original. except in my mind every single time i call them maude and dorothy which would have actually been less predictable (please get that Reader and don’t make me disappointed), but i feel it’s too late to change their names because i don’t want to give them an identity crisis. naming ducks is hard.


You all want to know – I’m sure you do – because my life is utterly  your horrible warning of how not to do things fascinating – how’s it going on the big mo-ve.

Well. Our Facebook relationship status would read “It’s Complicated.”

The first week is under my belt and it has been tiring. Really, bush.ed.tired.

I get up early (shut up if you get up earlier just for fun, Showoffy McShowoffPants) at the crack of 5:45-6 AM IN THE MORNING BEFORE THE SUN IS EVEN ALL THE WAY AWAKE.  But I don’t get to capitalize on all that early because I drive so damn far that I don’t get to work until 8:30.

Even that isn’t so bad. I have my radio with Howard who was so ducking funny last week I cried laughing, and have been bugging my cousin on long-winded morning calls. So that’s good.

The situation becomes a problem when I work late, which happened a couple days this past week because boy-howdy do we have a lot to do, and fast, with getting new products to new markets. It’s FUN. I love it. I hate working until 7 and then not getting home until 8:30ish, and then sticking food in my face, taking a shower and going to bed.

Speaking of bed, I need to be sleeping so ten minutes ago, Reader, but because I heart you, here we are.

I’ve spent a lot of cold, hard** cashola in gasoline.

So this week I have an Airbnb lined up for Monday and Tuesday nights, five minutes from my DoGooder Business, and we are going to see how that works out.  I’ve proposed to the couple who own the home that maybe I could stay there Mon-Thurs, checking out Friday morning on my way into work, and paying them directly for the steady occupancy. We are going to test each other out for the next two days. I am concerned that I maybe they are creepy and I should give them notice that I’m fat, not pregnant, so don’t try to cut a baby out of me, House Hosts, all you’ll get is a bunch of 52 year old insides that probably won’t even go for much on the black market, so save yourselves the trouble of cleaning your bathroom and trying to get rid of all that forensic evidence and let me just keep my insides intact and sleep in your guest room as planned. That scenario, or that they are going to try to tie me up and use me as a sex slave and believe me, they’ll be disappointed in that decision, too. My better years are behind me, is all I’m saying. Back in those better years when I was more bendy and nimble and could do Positions and stuff. This girl? Mostly complains and gets leg cramps.

That’s what’s doing here, Reader. I survived the relo, the first week of work, getting situated in a new room, figuring out my space and how to make it work, figuring out how to make this drive work, figuring out duck names and contemplating the possibility of sneaking them in my room at night and making them letting them enjoy cuddling me, and trying not to miss kissing DJ and Kitty Purry. Oh, and did I mention there’s been enough sunshine to be happy about it? And palm trees. It’s hard to be sad when there’s palm trees in view. Someone said that on my FB page, and she is obvi a wise old sage because truth.

Let’s go get the week, Reader. I have 5.5 hours until I have to be up. Damn, that went fast.



You guys.

I’m tired.

I know, I know. I’ve had months of plenty of rest.

But that reserve uses up quickly.

I’m here. I’m just not here here for you right now.

I just wanted to check in on you.  And let you know I’m okay.  I’m already tired of my looooong drive. But it was just Day 2. I’ll find a solution. That’s what I do: Figure it out.

It’s time for bed.

p.s. I miss you.

I Should Be Packing.

Well, Reader, it’s here.  A few things, actually.  Finally, nice weather to enjoy a cuppa joe on the deck. That’s been a rarity around these Northern parts.

The creek is babbling.

The birds are a-chirping.

It’s a good day here.

It’s also one of my last few days here to enjoy the deck here on the ravine. Tomorrow morning I head off to The Sunshiny State, just in time for Peak Humidity season. I had a get-together on Sunday and upon looking at a few pictures, I don’t know what was going on with my hair, but it was already looking like Hot Humidity Hair.  It thinks it’s already southern hair, apparently.

I still haven’t packed yet.  I mean, I put together a bag of food for the cooler to eat on the trip down.  Does that even count as packing?? I just gathered it up while I was cleaning out the fridge and freezer last night. I passed along a buncha food I know won’t get eaten in the next six months, tossed a lot that has been in there too long, and wiped out all the shelves.

I’m only mad at myself for tackling projects that have been lingering, just in time to not really enjoy the fruits of my labors. I figure the house will be like a time capsule of however I leave it though – and I’m tentatively planning on being back over the 4th of July.

Kitty Purry will need her mama by then.

Here she is enjoying some butter from my cinnamon toast that I plopped onto her snoot.

With her mama gone, who will do that? No one, that’s who. That’s why it’s so tough to leave these babes behind, because no one takes care of them like their mama.  But it’s only temporary, just til I get it figured out down there.

And I will figure it out.

It’s the next Adventure, come what may.

The hardest part is leaving everyone behind.  I’ve got a great group of people here.  But it’s not for good, it’s just for now.

So that’s it. I’ve got the last load of clothes in the washer. The dishwasher is also doing it’s job.  I’m going to go start gathering up the essentials I think I need to live somewhere else. That should be an interesting exercise, to see what I think is important enough to drive a thousand miles with me.


Step To It

You Guys, it’s been a whirl-wind around Chez Bang Bang lately, as I seem to be on my Farewell Tour and I’m trying hard to number one, get small things that I’ve procrastinated doing for five years finally done, and two, see all my friendies, and three, drink lottsa wine because full-up bottles would just be heavy to move so it just makes sense to drink them here and I’m nothing if not all about good sense, and four, sell some more crap valuable stuff to earn a bit of travelling money and five, finally make a job decision, which vacillates daily based on either a sound financial decision or a wow, this could be fun decision.

Shew-eeee, that was a lot of words up there, and now you have just a teensy small peek inside the brain of Trixie BB.  It’s exhausting in there.

In the mix of all the goings-on, I’ve been trying to soak up more outdoorsy time on the deck, and six of my three cats usually join me. The other night I locked up  the slider so Bad Guys don’t get the bright idea to just waltz in and intrude in my b-hole because I still watch a lot of Forensic Files and I’m not falling for “just leave the door open, who can get in” part of my brain that tries to trick me into a false sense of security. I lock it up around here, Bad Guys.

The following night we heard a “mmmmmeeeeeeewwwww.”  It was faint, but after some careful shushing of each other, we heard it again, and it was coming from the deck.

One of my poor little clowder had been trapped out there for probably twenty-four hours-ish, and she was wet and mad and hungry and insulted.

Now, in my defense:

  1. I turned on the light and called “Kitty Kitty” before shutting the door.  She needs to be responsible for not speaking up and coming in.
  2. She’s more of a loner around here, so her presence, or lack thereof, wasn’t really noticed, because she never hangs out with us anyway. Again, on her.
  3. I guess that’s it. I’m shirking the blame onto a 10 lb. cat, where it rightfully belongs.

It’s an absolutely gorgeous day in Cle today, and of course I flung open the door to enjoy my cuppa coffee on the deck and write a story for you, and post some doesn’t-spark-joy stuff for sale.

After several trips back and forth to get coffee, computer, blah blah, I looked down and realized My Kitten On the Deck All Night had left a little pile of poo behind for me, and I didn’t realize I’d stepped in it because I was wearing flip flops, and oh, girl! did she get the last laugh on me as I tracked that literal shit throughout the house and deck.

So that happened this morning, all before I even got a chance to enjoy my first cuppa joe.

And now I have to state the final decision on my job opportunities because I haven’t officially declared it yet, but it’s time to just get on with life.  I’m going with the oh doesn’t this sound fun! opportunity. Because beach. No amount of pros or cons on my thought-out list can sway me from those simple two words. Sometimes it’s just that simple.  And if I end up stepping in it and tracking it through my life, I’ll do what I always do – clean it up and move along.


Every Little Thing. Is Gonna Be Alright.

We’re going to try something a lil bit different here, Reader, because while I have a hundred bajillion things to tell you, it doesn’t seem to make it here to you with any sort of frequency. So I’m playing one of the Games of The Internets, wherein we answer a buncha questions and hence get a story of sorts told.

I need a guide, apparently, and I like this format.

I have so so so many really important adult-type things I need to be working on, for instance doing some stuff for my JOB, except I watched some videos on stuff to get learned up and now I need a mental break. This is where you benefit, Reader.  You’re welcome.

So let’s get to it and talk about some Gratitude Things. I am trying so hard to hold on to the gratitude moments, because there are many, but it’s so easy to get all caught up in the anxiety of Getting Everything Done. All the more reason to go on our guided chat.

What We’re Eating This Week…  I tend to go on cooking sprees when I’m stressed or overwhelmed. It’s a way for me to make something delightful out of a bunch of different things, and I get a little caught up in it, despite usually having a giant mess to clean up after. This week I made Lemon Chicken for the first time ever, and I added baby portabellas to it and it was really yummy. I didn’t like it much the first night that I made it, I thought it was too sour, but after the flavors settled, it was really good the next day.  I also made lemon squares for dessert – they say your body craves what it needs so maybe I needed some sour, which is odd because frankly I think I’ve been sour enough lately.  Ask My Mister, he’ll tell you.

In other What I’ve Had In My Mouth Lately news, I dug up an old cake recipe that used to be my very favorite chocolate cake in the whole wild world (yes, wild, my fingers typed that instead of wide and it felt right so I left it).  I’ve made this cake twice in the span of two weeks and it was equally fantastic both times. Well, the second time was a little better, as I made a better frosting. It’s Depression cake, an old recipe that requires no eggs, butter or milk. We called it Crazy Cake growing up. Mmmmm…now I want another slice, but it’s all gone.

What I’m Reminiscing About… Cooking was such a part of my growing up years, as my mama always had something on the stove. I think that’s why I lean toward cooking during times of high stress, because it brings me closer to her and also my grandmother, and it brings me comfort.  I saw this post on Facebook and it’s where I’d like to go this week, back, back to the barefoot girl with stubbed toes and carefree days and my mama on the front porch yelling that supper’s ready. 

Mother’s Day is always wrapped in angst for me, I didn’t get enough adult years to celebrate with my mom. Maybe I need to just be a little easier on myself this week, and forgive myself for not getting so many things on the to do list done, and instead say hooray for what I did accomplish (not much, Reader, unless eating a gallon of ice cream is counted as an accomplishment).

What I’m Loving… This week I’m loving my sun-kissed face, because I brought back a little bit of color from my trip to Florida. I had one luxurious day in the pool and was careful to not get burnt, but did get a little bit of a glow. I love it because I can see that tinge of color and be reminded how just a couple of days ago I was listening to ocean waves, floating on my back looking up at the cloudless sky, laughing and talking with new friends and making s’mores.  Friday was a really good day.

I needed this reminder to hold on to the gratitude, because even though things are in flux and a little chaotic and also weighing on my mind and robbing me of sleep, all signs point to it’s all going to be okay.

Since this seems like it can fill a page really easily, we’ll end it here for now and pick it back up maybe tomorrow. In the meantime, what about you, Reader? What are you loving, cooking, dreading, working on, excited about? Let’s share.

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Tiny Grass

For all my fans friends on Facebook, you may be wondering why I’m living the high life of travel at the moment, first in Memphis last week and now in Florida this week.

Sometimes it’s hard being me.

Sometimes it’s anxiety-ridden-and-scary-and-keeps-me-awake-at-night-how-am-I-going-to-figure-this-out-oh-my-gad-it’s-four-am-and-i-still-haven’t-slept Hard being me.

It’s been that kinda hard for the past month or two or three, but who’s counting.

I worry about my future. My family. My life. It’s hard being 52 and skilled and looking for work and trying to remain positive and keep turning over all the possible stones, even those that seem to be covered in shit, but you turn them over anyway, trying to see if maybe the shit is just covering up the shiny parts.

I was working in that shit-covered-no-shiny-parts stone environment from November thru January and I just fucking refuse to do something that mentally fucked again. The Guy Who Ran It was mentally fucked, and the coworkers were backstabbers and I don’t normally talk about it because no good comes from negativity except FUCK THEM, so there. I had to get that off my fingers at some point.

Let’s just sum it up by saying it was a bad experience.

And it’s made me extra cautious.

But I need money.

Why is it so tough to make that happy balance?

Well, the Universe must have been hard at work moving things into my way, because two decent sounding opportunities popped up; however, they are both out of state.

My Mister told me, “Maybe Cleveland has given you all it has to give.”

But change decisions are hard.  You grow a life somewhere, and to think of uprooting that life is scary and teary.

After interviewing at both places, I felt like I’d come where I’m supposed to be in Florida. The Universe has been hearing my yearning for life on a beach.  She just had to first strip me of many things I need in Ohio before I’d be willing to consider leaving to make a new life. She stripped me of money, and good job possibilities have just seemed to dry up. Bad job possibilities are non-existent for me, too. I started a little business that I’m in love with, but maybe that’s just a “not right now” kinda thing, or maybe it’s something I’m supposed to have started and then turn over to someone else while I go and figure out this new thing.

I don’t know.

But I do know I’m not going to let fear and anxiety stop me from trying something new.  So I’m putting one toe in the sand, and have said yes to the dress, and am going to try out the Florida Life and see how it fits.

So far just being here makes me happy in my soul, which is a term coined by my girl Steph, who also did a big scary move and kept leaping for what she wanted and found a fairytale.

She’s my inspiration.

I don’t know why the Universe has put so many old friends back in my path this past year. It seems rather rude to have reconnected only to lose them again, and so quickly.  Old school friends, old work friends. They’ve made this decision bittersweet. But as I’ve always said, as the wind blows, things change. Right now it’s blowing ocean breezes my way.

I have to just trust that it will work out the way it’s supposed to work out. I can do hard things. As serendipity would have it, I was having breakfast at a little beachside cafe yesterday and a woman about my age breezed in and sat down with a guy and started talking about how scared she is to be alone, leaving all her friends behind, starting over again with no one down here by her side.  At one point I leaned over and said, “Excuse me, I think we’re having similar lives right now,” and we got to chitchatting. She currently lives in Ohio, about an hour from me. She’s a couple years older than I am. She got a job offer that’s in Florida, about 45 minutes from where I’ll be. She’s worried about the move, and being alone, and having no friends and will it work out or is this is a mistake.

We exchanged contact info.

Her name is Santa. Pronounced “Sahn-ta.”

But really, Universe? You sent me a gift named Santa as a beacon that it would all be okay.

At least that’s what I’m going to believe.

What about you, Reader?

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