I care about all of the things and none of the things

I am too busy screwing up life in the best possible ways to give energy to areas I could care less about.

It’s a weird place to be.

My kids and hubby? All the fucks.

My friends? Fucks available.

Animals? An unreasonable number of fucks.

Someone crying in a TikTok because their dog died in 2017? I’m emotionally involved now.

But people’s uninvited opinions about me?

Eat a bag of dicks.

Nope. Don’t care.

I’ve reached the age where I finally understand that an opinion can simply exist without requiring my participation.

You don’t like what I’m wearing?

Okay.

You think I swear too much?

Correct.

You think I should behave differently at 48?

This is actually the best I could come up with.

Politics?

I’m currently in my politicians are corrupt era.

I’m not even sure it’s an era. It might be where I live now.

I used to think I needed to pick a side, defend the side, learn what the side thought about everything and then get mad at the other side.

Now I’m mostly standing off to the side wondering why everyone is screaming while people with expense accounts explain why they’re just like us.

But perhaps the biggest thing I no longer care about is making myself smaller so other people can feel bigger.

Fuck.

Right.

Off.

That one took me approximately 48 years to learn.

I spent years worrying about being too much.

Too loud.

Too opinionated.

Too ambitious.

Too confident.

Too emotional.

Too difficult.

Too fucking much.

So you learn to shave pieces off yourself.

Don’t say that.

Don’t mention that.

Don’t be too proud.

Don’t make them uncomfortable.

Don’t take up too much space.

Don’t let people think you think you’re something.

And then one day you realize:

I do think I’m something.

What the fuck was I supposed to think?

That I’m nothing?

I’ve done hard things. I’ve survived hard things. I’ve built things. I’ve fucked things up. I’ve started over. I’ve been spectacular and I’ve been a complete asshole.

Sometimes in the same afternoon.

I’m 48.

My hormones are doing parkour.

I occasionally walk into rooms with absolutely no idea why I’m there.

I do not have enough remaining brain cells to allocate any of them to whether Susan thinks I’m a little full of myself.

Susan can take her Stanley and hydrate somewhere else.

So yes.

I care about all of the things.

And none of the things.

I care about people.

I care about kindness.

I care about injustice.

I care about the people I love knowing that I love them.

I care about laughing until I can’t breathe.

I care about doing something useful with however much time I have left.

But whether everybody approves of how I do it?

I have checked the inventory.

We are completely out of fucks.