Jenny Jenny, Who Can I Turn to?

So... There is that. Up in arms. Paralyzed. Post traumatic shock. Got it. Clear, defined, lacking. Will, motivation, progress. We closed what appears to be the final chapter on Mom. The estate is solvent. It's dissected, distributed, accounted for. The stitches absorbed a blow and split wide open. Bleeding again. And that's not what I'm here to say.

The e-mail stated a few fucking gems: "you and I both know the numbers have to start making sense very soon..." (or) "You are now being evaluated on a month-by-month basis." (or this one) "we also both know that I can't 'plead your case' much further as the company has made a very significant commitment to supporting you financially during all your 'transitions'," And I subscribe to a very simple philosophy: I get up every morning and do the very best I can do. Period. I enjoy freedom from guilt, worry, regret because I give 100% to the task at hand. Sometimes it looks like 60%. Other times, 133%... Nonetheless, I drag my ass out of bed to give the day my best shot. Every day. And stealing money isn't the answer. You end up getting caught.

So I'm driving the girls home from their daily scholastic activities, and on the stereo, volume way too loud with children in the car, is the Music Quiz Choice for "Song that sounds like happy feels: Gansta Trippin, Fat Boy Slim." Glancing in the rear view, two sights catch my eye. One - The 4 year-old, asleep as usual, is slumped over like an assassinated president, drooling on her knee. And Two - The 6 year-old is staring at herself in the mirror, mouthing the indistinguishable lyrics to the song: "Whatcha doin witda, (x3) Fat Boy Slim." And the head jerking slightly back and forth, and she's serious.

I forget how this post started.