SuperGurl

Hey, out there! Out in Swellville, I do envy you so.

Certainly no improvement here. I have so little time to do so much. Motivation has never been my friend, but I’m afraid the full moon converging with Constipation Fest may be just the cruxy confluence of events to mark my final descent into madness.

And in less than a day, my skin will be crawling and stomach churning in the pits of a windowless pale peach padded banquet room. Intros creep me out. Feels too much like an AA meeting, which is funny considering none of us have the ability to quit.

Nah. Constipation Fest means learning what the powers that be have decided is our next priority. We get whiffs of it in the weeks leading up to Constipation Fest. Usually just bipolar interpretations of the inevitable change to come. We will hear it all, everything from glory days to we are all totally fuct. I can’t wait. The whiffs I’ve gotten so far smell of festival grade dookie house. They are going to blow the doors off.

But then the nice thing about Constipation Fest is its inherent celebration of survival. You have to love the gut-busting goodness of knowing that this is the fifteenth fest I have been subjected and somehow survived. And hey, that means nada con zilch among the plaque plied mutants that flourish there. But it means a whole lot of something to me.

Something like success, or maybe just suck less. Either perspective, I welcome the change. And I guess like my wise minded clientele, after so many years I’ve learned to appreciate the delivery of an on-schedule mass of crap.

CF 15, hell yeah!