Suck It, 2014.

OK. So.

I know the year’s not over yet, and in the limited time it has to be the best 2014 it can be, it has the potential to turn around (I could win a million and then a trillion dollars! I could change my name and move to Istanbul! [what.] I could write other sentences with exclamation points after them!) buuut, as far as I’m concerned – bring on next year.

Someone recently asked me my goals for 2015. In typical fashion I didn’t have any (who needs goals they don’t follow anyway…? … … …) but also in typical fashion I casually mentioned that I was planning a shotgun wedding – maybe an elopement! – and that I intended to carry around a cabbage patch kid in lieu of an actual child (ain’t nobody got time for that [except for those of you who do… but, like, I’m not there yet. Imagine childbirth and I are on opposite ends of a football field. And then imagine that the other end of the football field is in California, while I’m chillin’ in New York. And I guarantee you even THAT’S not far away enough]).

But yes. This year. I will take this year and crumple it the fuck up. And then I will stomp on it.

Last time I was round these blogging parts, I believe my apartment had flooded, I was just beginning legal proceedings with mi madre, I was training for the marathon, I think? Well, let’s revisit.

“A long, long time ago, I can still remember…” (mood setting textual music)

So, the apartment flooded and I found another basement apartment for $10 cheaper, because who learns lessons? NOT THIS GIRL. It’s pretty and liveable and hasn’t flooded yet, so go team. And, since all my stuff got flooded, it seems as though I have a lot of space. I have no real furniture, because I am not a millionaire, and I have a limited wardrobe because my suitcases were filled with clothes when the rain came pouring in. It’s cool though, because I’ve gained some weight and nothing really fits me, but I’m doing the best I can. Plus, I work on a dock all day long, so I keep my jacket on anyway. WINNING.

I stopped running. I just gave up and reached for whatever else was around that I could eat.

I turned 30 and my family was like, “MARRIAGE?!! BABIES?!?!?” See above for 2015’s idea. I was even asked if I would consider adopting. Maybe I’ll just go out and buy a turkey baster and find a used condom, and then write the screenplay and sell it, where it’ll become a movie starring Tina Fey or Jennifer Aniston – the feelgood comedy of the year. (Still winning, but only if we’re on acid. Are we?)

I guess I was busy being married to my job. But, as luck would have it, I got one of the worst performance reviews ever (see, 2014? YOU BASTARD!). And then, as luck would have it, I got a chance to transfer to a new department starting next year. It’ll be weird, because I’ll have actual weekends and set hours, and I might even have time to be married to a person. Or run. Or buy furniture. But let’s not get too crazy.

Oh. Then there’s my mom. Who’s still super crazy. Our court dates have been as follows:

“Amanda, who’s petitioning for legal guardianship of her mother.”

My mother: “Um, I would like to say that this is NOT my daughter. She is an impostor.”

The last two times (including today) she has asked for my ID, and still refuses to believe that I am who I say I am. Today, she held onto it, as if the little plastic card held all the promise of the future. She just kept looking at it, and back to me, and saying, “It’s not you. It’s not you.”

And then her super optimistic social worker intervened with, “She’s not wearing her glasses in the picture! Her hair is down! It’s the same person!”

And then my mom told me to smile. And I gave her my best “here’s my fucking smile” smile. And I still was not me. Sad day.

So I said, “Ok. Bye.”

And she said, “I will not be talked to like that!”

And I said, “Ok.” Because otherwise I would have said, “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” and then followed it up with choice expletives and capped it off with “BUT IT DOESN’T MATTER BECAUSE I AM NOT YOUR DAUGHTER! I AM THE IMPOSTOR MUAHAHAHAHAHA…”

And then she said I was a bad little girl, and walked away.

For what it’s worth, I *know* this isn’t my mother. It’s merely a form of my mother. But for what it’s worth? This form can go the fuck away now, ’cause I’m tired of the bullshit. Like, if I could do a conference call with all of her voices, and just accidentally disconnect them one by one? That’d be amazing (take note, neuroscientists. I just came up with something big. Checks can be made payable to: AMANDA, NOT IMPOSTOR).

So yes. GTFO 2014. I’ve had about enough of you.

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