52 52

Last year was a rough one. I was 52, and was born in 1952. It was my version of the triple sixes, the sign of the anti-Christ.
This year, the pain of last year is fading, and the scars are less prominent. But, more and more, I'm not the girl I used to be. And the girl I was, is cheering new me on.
I think old me was more likable. More helpful. More generous.
New me likes herself better than old me did, and has less need to earn acceptance. New me sets serious boundaries, and if you cross them, you can just keep going. Good-byes used to break old me's heart. No more.
New me doesn't give a shit if you've dug yourself into a hole with your crappy choices and is bored to death with your rationalizations. New me won't even look in the hole you dug when you're screaming for attention. (Old me couldn't throw you a rope fast enough.)
I have less friends than I did last year. Better friends, but less of them. And, I am not looking for new friends until one of my old friends dies.
My old friends are very healthy.
New me gets scared sometimes and tries to find old me.
Old me wants none of it. Old me is tired of dragging those gigantic steamer trunks of life shit around everywhere I go, and tells new me to move along.
New me is trying to be more like my brother, St. Billy of Milan.
I call him St. Billy the Adopted, because I can't believe he's as sane and smart and giving as he is, with the same toxic gene pool. I continue to believe my mother, who dresses in a white habit and has a chapel in her living room, will tell him he's adopted on her death bed, right before she joins the Muslim martyrs looking for their 70 virgins, tells them that they are the anti-Christ, last year was their year, and all they get is her very non-virginal daughter telling them to go fuck themselves.