Unquiet
Things

Fifty stars in the night sky is barely a drop in the celestial bucket of universes. Fifty grains of sand wouldn’t even cover the head of a pin (or would it? I have no sense of dimension or spacial awareness.) Fifty dollars is the paltriest of fancy cheese budgets.

But I reckon when it comes to the lifespan of a human person, fifty years is rather a lot. As of today, I have been here for all fifty of them.

How am I me being alive in this world right now? I could have been anybody, anywhere, at any time. But I ended up being me, here, now, in this life. I think about this a lot!

I was scared I was going to die at 49 like a couple of other women writers that I read about. Fuck yeah I didn’t die!! So here’s my annual birthday carousel of faces of undeath to mark the passage of another year. (In this one over on Instagram, I look like my late mother when her eyes would go all crazy, in another my hair looks super good.)

Anyhoodle, it’s my birthday, go buy one of my books, either one of the books I wrote or one in my pango shop. Or write a nice review for one of them! Or whatever, do something nice for someone! There’s lots of birthdays today, I guess!