I’ve had a horrible cough for the last week. Classic 2022 tale as old as time, at home test informs me I don’t have Covid. Which, if there’s one thing I’ve learned this year is someone coughing and assuring you, “It’s not Covid, I tested negative” definitely has Covid.

So I guess like in The Secret or Monkey’s Paw Magnetic New Ageiness, I am steadily losing weight because I have listed about the house all day, not giving a good goddamn about food. This is also the week when the weight loss place finally figured out my log-in delemna and have sent me three separate emails requesting I do a zoom meeting with a counselor and lolololol fuck noooooooo.

I got all cocky a few days ago and tried on a pair of pants (one of many) I have been stubbornly buying throughout the pandemic in size 30 because that is “my size” (Hahhahahahhaaaa…wheeze.. cough.. haaa) and although technically I could button them, they did things to my lower half and belly that made me look like middle management from a 70’s show where I should’ve had mutton chops, a pit-stained half-sleeve button up with a mustard tie, and a cigarette to furiously smoke. Also a bald spot for some reason? Maybe illness has sent me to the 90’s and I’m channeling Andy Sipowicz?

Homicide Adjacent

Forgive me for jumping around, but I’m still sick, and I kind of promised myself I’d do a post a week for a while, so you get what you get.

When I started writing about Homicide Adjacent things, my husband told me he could not bear to read my posts anymore. He is intensely private, and me having a blog, even an anonymous one, has always made his pulse hammer. His family trade has been in secrets, and as a younger person he witnessed someone nearly lose their lives for carelessly mishandling a secret of national security. It’s really kind of a monkey paw miracle a guy like my husband ended up with someone like me, who lives for the adrenaline rush of horrifying others with my internal workings.

Up until that moment, he had been the primary person, maybe the only person, I blogged for. Any marriage is a secret unto itself, but this blog has been full of things I wanted him to know as my best friend, and could not say to his face because I am his wife. Or I guess I could, but it was never as magical or fun as lurking by his computer and hearing him chortle at something when he got to my page, or the secrets he would tell me later, after he had read mine.

Anyway, with whatever remains of my monkey paw magic, I hereby siren song to him, calling to him to make his way back. There is nothing terrible here. Only me in my horribly fitting pants.