Blogging is a lost art. And by lost, I mean that America has lost interest in it. With Twitter and Snapchat and Insta-stories, you can get everyone's thoughts on everything in a split second. I admit, I do embrace a Social Media outlet or two, but I am a bit more old-fashioned than all that. I value the narrative over the blurb, and think that some ramblings deserve more than a mere 280 characters. For instance, this rant on aging that I shall now commence:
WTF, people? When? Why? How?
One day, people still think I'm in my late twenties. And the next - and I mean OVERNIGHT - I am three measly months shy of my *cough, cough - heart palpitations - cough* FORTIETH birthday and find myself falling apart.
Where did that gray hair come from? And that one? And the one over there?!? And when did my eyes start to look like bird feet?? And when did my chest start to take on the appearance of that gift bag filler I shoved in my mom's birthday present?
Oh, and the biggest question of all: WHERE DID I GET ALL THESE CHINS?!?!?!?!
And don't for a minute think that all these new karmic bitch-slaps came with a reprieve on the acne. OH NO. I have ADULT acne, now!! It's even more awesome because you can't just burn it off with that OTC Clearasil you've used for decades anymore. OH NO. NOW you have to figure out how to balance detoxification with moisturizing and clarifying and hormone regulating. For the love of all that is holy, getting old sucks.
ESPECIALLY if you're an old WOMAN. Stupid men just look distinguished. And somehow get even hotter. Points in case?
THIS:
is now
THIS:
and
THIS:
now looks like
THIS:
Rat bastards.
Meanwhile I now look like...
THIS:
Except, add a few more pounds to that midsection there.
It ain't right, I tell you! It just ain't right. What did I ever do to you, Universe??
Damn you, Eve, for eating that blasted apple. You started all this.
Bitch...