Ramblings of a Middle Aged Lunatic

Jealousy.                 If you’re anything like, say, anyone (or me) you’d rather sit and discuss others being jealous of you, than own up to your own struggle with the green- eyed monster.   After all, jealousy is mean and petty, and nice people never feel such things.                      Regardless, jealousy is a human emotion, and although envy is one of the seven deadly sins, we all feel its pangs from time to time.   We may deny it, we may try to reason our minds out of it, but we cannot deny it exists.                 Things that make me jealous: 1.        Thin women.   I can sort of stand women who maintain their figures through a disciplined, decidedly unfun regime of strict clean eating and Draconian exercise habits, but as for women who burble, “I’ve always been naturally slender no matter what I eat, I just can’t gain weight!” I’d like to cut those bitches.   I am comforted by the knowledge that I am not alone in that sentiment.   Paradoxically, I am even more j

                It was my worst nightmare come to life.                 I avoid any situation that reminds me of my past as an outcast.   Since I still live in the town of my childhood, avoiding it altogether is out of the question.   After all, I drive past my high school and elementary school every single morning on my way to work sans trauma.   That being said, I associate my past pain more with situations than places.                   I don’t like being the center of attention when among strangers, and I don’t like people looking at me and whispering.                   But here I was, all the same.                 I had arrived at my town library ready to do my civic duty and vote in the gubernatorial primaries.   At that hour, seven forty-five in the morning, the parking lot was all but deserted, a very different picture than the last time I voted, during the election of 2016.   When I entered the room where the event taking place, I was cheered to see there were

                Let me tell you about the world in which I grew up.                 It’s either 1980 or ’81, the exact year escapes me.   I’m five going on six, or six going on seven.   It’s July third, nine days before my birthday, an eternity.   I’ve spent the rainy morning drawing flags with my sisters.   Late morning, the sun came out.   I’m shooed outside.   I’m alone in our front yard, the last house on a dead end street.                   I should have been safe.                 But Billy, my creepy fourteen year old neighbor, ambles over from across the street.   I’d always had trouble with Billy.   My mother had already spoken to his parents about him punching me in the arm after I’d had a tetanus shot that hit the muscle, so I couldn’t raise it for days.   Strange that no one found it troubling that a teenager was hitting a small child.   Anyway, I knew Billy didn’t like me.   He often told me I was a fat little girl, which stung.                   I wanted him to