For almost two days now, I’ve been trying to write an inspirational, appreciative, deeply reflective birthday post for my little blog, Everyone Has A Story. Well, don’t worry; this isn’t it. What can be said about this last year that I haven’t already said ad nauseum? If you learn nothing from this particular post, just know this. They all can’t be diamonds! 🙂

Everyone Has A Story had one hell of a year. There’s just no other way to sum it all up. So, Happy Birthday, Little Blog! 

This little blog has survived me writing in it about everything from men who steal women’s panties all the way to what nasty things men do with our tweezers. There is an actual, written recounting of how a prophecy crushed the life out of my very first crush, and the obsession with death I developed  from reading too many Oklahoma Supreme Court Appeals from the inmates on death row.

It bore sad witness to the demise of a marriage that I truly loved, the insanity of, and dark humor in, addiction, the pain of infidelity, and the raw rage of being betrayed. It mourned the loss of my favorite human being on earth to drugs, the mind-bending experience of grieving for someone you loved who isn’t actually dead yet, and learning to let them go.  And it keeps in its vaults the pride-busting disappointment in finding out that I wasn’t the person that I once thought I was, and that I was still a long, long way from being a good representative for the Lord.  It’s pages hold the moments that the true meaning of what it means to be saved by grace really moved past my mind sunk into the cracks of my broken heart. With each day, it witnesses the slow but steady healing that comes with time, acceptance, a fluctuating forgiveness,  a little Vodka now and then, and a lot of friends who patiently loved me through my worst moments. 

I’m not the same person I was a year ago, and surprisingly, I’m not completely unhappy about that, either. 

I’ve written, and then removed, some embarrassing posts while Ambien-ed out and/or drunk on Vodka or Tequila; I’ve Drunk-Dialed a few friends, including my boss, and generally made a fool of myself for the entire internet world to see, on more than one occasion. I find that embarrassing yourself just once is too easy. I like to make sure people will remember me for all the wrong reasons. 🙂

The upside, though, was that it was a little easier for me to crawl back to a keyboard and type my apologies than it would have been had I actually Jose-Cuervo-ed in front of Those Good Friends of Mine in person. There’s just nothing more embarrassing than actually seeing someone else’s embarrassment in their face for you. I’ve rafted Whiskey River more than a few times in my life with my Friend’s In Low Places, and I just thank God that most of the time, they were either as soused as I was, or they love me so much, they pretended not to have seen me fall in the dirt.

There have been those other times, though, that I’ve considered faking my own death rather than have to face the people who actually witnessed me being a complete, pathetic mess. 🙂

Most of all, with all that craziness that I’ve exposed to the unsuspecting friends I’ve made in this cyber-world, I am touched by the fact that people still came back to my blog to encourage me, advise me, pray for me, or just to cry with me day after day, no matter what. I have made true friends here.

And even with all those reasons to appreciate this little site, I’ve still sat in front of this computer screen numerous times over the last few days, waiting for some kind of inspiration to seize me. 

Well, it’s been days of waiting for inspiration to seize me, and it’s clear, it isn’t going to happen. So, instead, I’ll share a little bit of  the random crap I’m known for. 

I have routines when I get on my computer. I check my emails, work and personal, check my Facebook accounts (both work and personal), check my blog site, etc. And lately, I’ve spent entirely too much time and energy in a quest to have one of my Twitter answers featured on Huffington Post‘s Readers Share series. Somewhere in the last two or three weeks, what started out as just some random, passing question that had caught my attention briefly enough to type a quick tweet/answer to it, has now become a Mission From God, and I spend way too much time trying to think up some witty, yet pithy answers to their soul-searching relationship questions.

I swear on all that is holy, just how clever do you have to be to make it on Huffington Post’s Readers Share series???? 

These aren’t even real articles. There’s no real, helpful advice or sterile medical explanations on these Twitter polls.  Why I’m taking this so seriously is a mystery to me, as well. The Twitter wisdom they spew each week is really just Huffington Post’s weekly space filler to give divorce-obsessed readers, like me, a chance to tweet how they knew their marriages were over, or how they dissed their cheating partner, or whatever else emotionally charged subject they could think of each week , all in 3 words or less.  They come up with these odd little twists in the rules,  like ridiculously small word counts, which are designed to throw a cleverly different shadow over a tired subject, without having to read long, sad diatribes by the freshly wounded. And my theory is they use Twitter because of that website’s unrelenting space allotments. Whenever their poll has the 3 words or less-instructions, though, I just know it’s because Huffington Post – Divorce Division employees want to get off early and meet for drinks after work. 

And frankly, it is rather hard to come up with pearls of wisdom, having only three little words strung together cleverly enough to stand out in a rather large crowd. This is just the sort of thing designed to make my brain overheat.

The first Twitter Divorce Poll I actually answered, I actually cared about the question they were asking. But now, it’s become this obsession with me because they never use my contributions. I’m not saying that my answers were magical or mind-expanding, or even that interesting. But they definitely were better than “Eat Ice Cream” and “Be Happy” as answers to the question How Did You Move Past the Pain of Divorce?  Ice Cream? Really? And “Be Happy”?  I just want to slap those people. Those answers got a Two Thumbs Down from me. I could have bathed in a vat of Ice Cream singing Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy for months, and I doubt my mood would have improved even a little bit. In fact, I’m pretty sure I would have ended up putting someone’s eye out. Where’s the honesty in reporting, people? Revenge and the Ex begging for your forgiveness on his knees trump ice cream and “be happy” clichés all day long.

For weeks now, I’ve been answering all their stupid Twitter Divorce questions, no matter how irrelevant they are to my own life — Should you keep your ex’s name?…… It’s Over – Reader’s Share When They Knew,…… Do You Stalk Your Ex On Facebook? ……Is It Too Easy To Get Divorced? ……Do You Spend Too Much Time Thinking Up Clever Tweets To Divorce Questions That Mean Nothing To You ? ...Nothing is too trite that I won’t try to think of something witty to  tweet. And I do the work, people. I actually think about it for long periods of time before I settle on a tweet. As God as my witness, I’ll make Huffington Post acknowledge my Tweets, if it is the last thing I do!!

Maybe the energy I spend on this ridiculous mission would be better served in other areas of my life, but we’ll never know. I am helpless to stop myself.

As a really special offering to Blogosphere, I’ve been looking up medical terminology that makes me laugh. I became interested in this subject when I came across this little priceless nugget of a word while reading some random article – Pruritus Ani. It literally means itchy butt, and it is a real medical word to describe a real medical condition! …Priceless! Sometimes the universe lines up just for me….. Upon further research, I was delighted to discover, there are tons of conditions that are either super funny, or my brain has finally cracked. There is one, though, that has caused me to laugh like a senseless ninny entirely too many times. This medical condition is appropriately called Rhinotillexomania. It means having an addiction to picking your nose!!! This is just the kind of information that just keeps on giving. People Addicted to Mining the Green Gold. Without a doubt, I’ve spent entirely too much time imagining different scenarios about Nose Picker Addicts. Nasal Sooners. Deep Diggers Anonymous.

Now, I ask you, can there be anything grosser than this? And why do I find this so hilarious? It isn’t like I’m a 9 year-old kid here!

For the record, I’d rather announce to the world my addiction to just about any other behavior/substance on the face of the earth, to include any of the truly sexually deviant ones and most of the illegal ones, too, before I’d ever attend a Rhintillexomania Anonymous meeting, or stand in front of a bunch of people and announce I not only pick my nose, but it makes me feel so good, it has become an addiction. Is there any coming back from that? 

I doubt it.

I can all but hear the world-weary voices of the addicts that have gathered to receive support from others who share that same brand of suffering. Picking their noses constantly has ruined their lives — financial, familial, and social burdens have driven them deeper into their addictions… get it? Deeper? LOL!! I know. I worry even myself.

” Hi, my name is Joe, and I’m a Nose-Picking Addict.” 

” Hi, Joe. Welcome!” ——(Yeah. Right. Like there could be enough people in one area willing to admit to any other human being on earth that they have a problem keeping their fingers out of their noses.)

I’m willing to bet some serious money that you’d be hard-pressed to find a female at one of these support groups either. The Female Nose-Picking Addict probably takes that little jewel straight to the grave with her.  Can you imagine having to shake a Rhintillexomania sufferer’s hand, knowing just where those fingers spend most of their time? The real mind-twister is,  how do you know you never have? They look just like you and me…. LOL!!

Ugh. I’m grossed out and amused all at the same time all over again.

Even worse, I find myself cracking up to things that seriously don’t deserve the amount of mirth I’m feeling for them. Has anyone seen the KFC Game Day Bucket commercial? It is just a bunch of random people getting together at different houses to watch the Super Bowl and eat Kentucky Fried Chicken. But one of the last scenes shows this Very Wonder-bread Caucasian, suburban housewife, talking in her best gansta voice about the KFC Chicken Special that has her so delighted.

” Eight pieces of chicken, eight hot wings, ten bites. Game Day Bucket go boom.” 

I’m being really honest here when I say, I have no idea why I find this so hilarious. But, whatever it is, I’ve woken myself up from a deep sleep laughing at this stupid commercial. I’ve now seen it somewhere in the vicinity 78 times, and I still can’t help giggling. It’s a mystery.

Tonight, I just decided to give up the idea of writing anything meaningful or inspirational about this site. The truth in a nutshell is that this site and the many, many friends I’ve made here, have proven to be some of the most positive presences in my life during such a bleak, crushing time for me. Instead, I’m just going to say that I suspect Blogosphere and the citizens in it,  were the main reasons I’m able to laugh at white women rapping about fried chicken, people who are addicted to picking their noses, dedicate time and energy to wage a Twitter war with the Huffington Post, and the other million random nonsense thoughts that float through my head on an hourly basis. I’ll take any of them over the sad, broken, hopeless misery I have just recently emerged from.

In a way, that’s the best way I can think of to say Thank You to all of you.

Sweet Dreams. Carry hand-sanitizer.

Love Always,

Bird

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