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<\/a>2. SURPRISE!! I have a HUGE problem with death. This baffled the hell out of me,\u00a0as I’ve been involved in some intense (some say obsessive<\/em>) study of death & murder since I was about 13. The Grim Reaper and I should be old chums by now. I laugh at his antics, and he at mine.\u00a0Then I turn 40 and POW! He and I are mortal enemies…literally.<\/p>\n3.\u00a0I discovered that I heartily dislike this change in our relationship. I miss having Death on my side.\u00a0I recently lost two acquaintances, one in her seventies and one my age. While the first was personally devastating, the latter was a bit too close to the bone, I think. It rattled me, and set my train of thought on a grim downward spiral.<\/p>\n
4. Shockingly, drinking copious amounts of\u00a0wine while\u00a0I’m already depressed does not cheer\u00a0Writerghoulie up. I’m normally a giggly, playful drunk who laughs readily and shakes her tushie and\u00a0chases mischief.\u00a0However, drinking while miserable\u00a0makes\u00a0me morose, prickly, morbid, jealous, cruel, and downright stabby. I nearly told several dear friends to fuck right the hell off, and\u00a0I don’t mean\u00a0the friends who are used to hearing that from me. The damage might have been irreparable. Good to know for future reference.<\/p>\n
5. I learned I fit in a king-sized pillow case with room to spare.\u00a0A fun little fact, but equally serious, in that it implies I can squeak through tiny spaces to escape, should the need arise. (That’s an\u00a0FYI\u00a0for you, weirdo Stalker. You’re welcome<\/em>.)<\/p>\n 6. I found out if I take a week off yoga, my knees get cranky on me when I start up again. Boo. This means, no more yoga breaks. Also, it’s extraordinarily hard to get on the carb wagon over and over, so this might be the last time I break up with carbs. It’s over, bagels. I can’t see you anymore, toast & jam. Hit the road, muffins. I can easily\u00a0live without you, rice. See ya later, pasta…I only pretended to like you, anyways. TOTALLY faked all my lasagna orgasms. (<– that wasn’t pretty, trust me.<\/em>) And now the hardest of all….potatoes? Oh, potatoes. I love you so much. I love you at breakfast beside my eggs, all fried and crispy. I love you mashed at dinner to sop up the blood from\u00a0my steak. Oh GAWD<\/em> how I love you in a cream soup, or crammed in a Yorkshire Pudding. But… this? *grabs the pudgy bit in her side* Yeah, no. I’m not ready to let myself go. Potatoes, you will be missed most of all. To my writer friends in the Booktrope lounge: I am 100% on board with #WellnessWednesday. No more slacking for Writerghoulie. xoxo<\/p>\n 7. Some people REEEEALLLY don’t like it if you react to depression by withdrawing. Since I absolutely\u00a0must<\/em> crawl into my shell and sulk quietly in order to come around, my depressive episodes have an additional downside: I make people feel helpless. This is really uncool, because it’s bad enough that I’m hurting, I certainly don’t want to create a contagion of melancholy. The only solution I can suss out (so far) is to fake being better in order for other people to feel better, and then steal away for a bit more quiet. It worked this time, but since I’m blogging it to the fucking world, that particular jig might be up. Heh. *Derp.*<\/p>\n 8. Reading reviews of Touched, Death Rejoices, or Cold Company is NOT a good plan when I’m deep in the pit of despair (yes, I just heard the Princess Bride albino’s \u00a0voice. HE DIED, TOO!<\/em> Everyone’s dying this summer, dammit.). Someone remind me not to do that. When I’m blue, it takes ten good reviews to quirk my lip up into a half-smile, but one bad one to fucking kneecap me. I should leave myself a big note for next time. <DEAR ME: NO HAPPY? NO REVIEWS!><\/p>\n 9. Lastly, I learned that I know some pretty amazing people. The very fact that I have people who try to nudge me out of my sulking, who threaten to come drag me out from under the bed, who text me non-stop (“Better yet? How ’bout now? How ’bout now? Want a picture of my wiener? No? Smiling yet? I called it ‘wiener,’ can’t not laugh at that.\u00a0You’re not laughing at my dick<\/em> are you? That’s mean. YOU’RE MEAN! Feel better?\u00a0Wanna see me hump\u00a0a rubber ducky in the bathtub? Smiling yet? HOW CAN YOU NOT SMILE AT THAT, MY BALLS ARE ON HIS BEAK! He squeaks when I teabag him. Nothing? Hello? I’m warning you, I’ll text\u00a0you pictures of body parts until you tell me to stop. First up: ye ol’ starfish. Hey? How does one take a picture of one’s own arsehole? Text me immediately, I need to know. IT’S IMPORTANT. IT’S FOR A JOB INTERVIEW!”). I have people\u00a0who order me to phone them post haste, and they say “post haste” for fuck’s sake, how awesome is that? I have\u00a0people who show up on my porch to struggle\u00a0me into their embrace (Heather: “Hug me, dammit! STOP FIGHTING ME! WE’RE CUDDLING, YOU DIPSHIT!”)<\/em> …well, that’s all fucking awesome, isn’t it? I wasn’t able to appreciate it fully last week. I appreciate it now. You people are the bestest. *love and smooches*<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"http:\/\/www.ajaalto.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/images\/photo3-300x210.jpg\" "\\"photo\\"")
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<\/a>(Editor’s note: A.J. Aalto is not nearly as tough as she pretends; thankfully, she balances this by having even fewer scruples than you’ll ever know.)<\/em><\/p>\n