What do you call a concoction of comforting familiarity, gut-splitting hilarity, multi-generational trauma, guilt, shame, along with the associated anxiety, depression, and self-medication, blahblahfuckingblah, and a healthy portion of OMFG get me the hell out of here, STAT?
My family. My entire extended family under one roof. My roof. All together. At the same time. For all the days since late last week. Except my BIL, the one who dropped dead in March.
I bet you think I’m going to launch into a free associating, twisting, turning post about our collective misadventures and triumphs. You’d be wrong. I may or may not be working on it, but the truth is even if I’m working on it, and I’m not saying I am, I might never have the skin tags to post it. So, for now, let me leave you with this photo essay – during which I may or may not have pissed myself laughing, TWICE – entitled, Three Sisters, A Mother, And A Selfie Stick:
And in closing, let us pray for the next generation….they’re having a great time together, btw, and that’s everything….