I guess you fucking missed me.

Ok, I kind of fucking missed you too.

Every once in a while, life is an asshole.

In my case, it has been the kind of persistent and sustained asshole that is riddled with pus-filled hemorrhoids sat atop a cactus in the desert heat. So in other words…not pretty.

The sum-up is that I took a new job back in December which has been awesome, but holy fucking demanding in ways that are hard to describe. I’m still really glad I did it and I absolutely adore the team I work with but I bit off a big fucking hunk of challenge with this thing.

Plus, my dog is trying to fucking die on me. He’s got lymphoma and I know we’re on borrowed time, so a hearty Fuck You to the forces of the universe that decided dogs only get a dozen or so years on this planet. That’s right up against having a mom who is really, really sick too and has spent far too much time in hospitals in recent months for my fucking liking.

So it has been, as they say, the perfectly fucktacular shitstorm of life and things like writing (and sometimes eating or sleeping or laundry or functioning) have been on the back burner.

Sorry about that. But it actually brings me to a good point for this months-overdue edition of your beloved Dear Fuckers.

You need to cut people some fucking slack. Including yourself.

I mean, for the last three (okay, arguably six) fucking years, we’ve been wandering through this hellscape of a societal cocktail that’s two parts pandemic, a few dashes of violent and extremist white supremacy just hanging out all casual-like on the steps of the fucking Capitol, a floater of rolling back of women’s rights into somewhere like the cretaceous era, and a chaser of collective mental health that’s crumbling at the slightest crosswind.

I’d say we’ve had our fucking share of Existential Dread, and that’s to say nothing of whateverthefuck we’re all going through in our own personal lives. Which, if my social media feeds are any indication these days, is quite a lot.

So we have our sanity dangling by a fucking thread but somehow we keep waking up every day just trying to do the “fine, this is fine, no problem it’s all fine” dance while also somehow being on the brink of a guttural, soul-wrenching scream that we’re not even sure is because of anything it’s just there, on the tip of our psyche daring us to open our mouths or hearts too wide lest it come tumbling out in the most inopportune moment.

We’re touch-starved, we’re intimacy and relationship starved, we’re afraid and we’re weary and we’re angry and it’s all this tangled labyrinth of emotion that one day might be okay because we can drown it in enough Productivity to keep it to a dull roar.

The next day it might be Very Much Not At All Fucking Okay.

And every time I have a VMNAAFO day, I still somehow manage to chastize myself for not doing enough to be Polly Fucking Sunshine or go burn some calories or finally patch that hole in the wall or remember to make dinner for my kid.

Seriously though, what the fuck is that?

If it were anyone else I loved, I’d be bending over backwards to demand that they have some grace for themselves and reiterate all the things that are like gale-force headwinds to well-being right now. But somehow I can’t seem to find that grace for myself. I try. But I fail a lot.

I’m sure I’m not the only one.

So I’m trying to cut myself slack for abandoning you for several months and I won’t pretend to make promises here that I have the spoons to write you weekly right now, but I’ll promise to show up a little more often even if it’s a little more messy because fuck, what isn’t messy right now? That’d be pretty on brand.

And that means we probably need to find a little more patience for each other, too, because we’re all swilling this swampy life elixir right now that kind of tastes like ass (and not the good kind). Except for the fucking misogynistic assholes I’ve encountered this week—yes, plural—including the one who tried to tell me on LinkedIn that sexism “doesn’t exist where he’s from”. Because I guess it’s a geographical thing, sort of like whether you call it a bubbler or a cah pahk. Sure, Craig. Okay. Whatever you say, champ. Have the day you deserve.

Anywhore, nothing more profound to say in this missive except: latitude, okay? We’re giving each other a wide berth for the messy and mundane and imperfect because our souls are currently stitched together with twist ties and day-old chewing gum and it’s the least we can do for one another.

Okay? Okay. Good to see you again. Most of you.

With love and angst,

Amber

PS - Andrew Scott as Moriarty is perfection, I will hear nothing else, and if you haven’t seen him do the Hamlet soliloquy or this gorgeous solo play called Sea Wall (full version here and way worth the $5), you are missing out on so, so much in life.