My Unique Day with a Ferret and The Bloggess subtitled "How did so many people get in here? The Story of Now, Inside My Mind"

One of my favorite friends isn't answering my calls, emails, letters, or smoke signals.  I decided to write about it in my blog so maybe she would read it here and meet me for lunch one day next week.  There's a great Hawaiian place in Atlanta I just heard about and I'd like to see a fire show while I enjoy a meal.  Unless there's dairy involved; then I won't enjoy the show OR the meal.

She is so cool and funny and smart and she has a dog named Dorothy Barker, writes a blog, has a precious daughter and very understanding husband and lots dead stuff in her house.  When I say "friend" of course I mean someone famous on the internet whom I've never actually met.  But now it's kind of like we've met because I just had the Best Day Ever and it was because of her.  And because of the actual Unique person I met.  She makes me laugh and sometimes cry.  She also has no idea who I am or that I even have a blog.  She would totally "get" me and want to go get matching tattoos if we (Me and Unique) ever did meet Jenny Lawson,  The Bloggess who is famously worldwide famous for her love of ferrets.  She is so popular that some pet stores ask her to leave before "that thing that happened last time you were here" happens again.  She is also a celebrity, popular, and probably crazy rich since she writes books but is also sad and vulnerable. (Same as my other Bestie, Brene Brown).

Nobody is probably following me at this point.  (Not blog "following".  I have family and friends with Multiple Personality Disorders to prop up my ego.  So not kidding.)

What I mean is, nobody is probably understanding that I am actually talking about a REAL girl; Unique, and a VERY real person with a blog who is only virtually my friend.
And Lazarus, a furry girl.
Continue, dear reader.  This will make more sense if you finish this post.
(Especially if I actually finish and post it- b/c usually I don't.)  Don't Judge Me.
Lazarus, before her bath. (The one on the left)

Books can be expensive but blogs are free and so are ferrets.  As long as you don't take them out of the store with you.  Or damage them.  I begged the lady at the pet store to let me hold one and she LET ME BATHE HER!!!  (the employee let me bathe the animal, to be clear).

So now I have a real friend and not just computer generated ones that may or may not be Robots.  This is Unique.  (the employee, not just the condition of having an actual live friend, also unique in a way that, in this case means, out of the usual manner of circumstance)
I don't claim to be capable of using the internet.  Or this computer thing.  

Much like my own head, there are so damn many people in this post that even I am confused.  And I wrote it.  And I know them all... well, know OF them all.
And yes, they ARE real and not just voices in my head.  (Mental Illness is not funny, gotdammit.
My people with visual and auditory hallucinations live in their own special little hell on earth
-and furry things are the only things that keep us from stepping off the rooftop some days.)

I don't know if her past is like mine... and if it was I would never Tell Her or anyone else.  But her people are my people... I goes where she goes- even when that means down the damn Rabbit Hole in Raccoon pants (Brene and RSA can help us).  I am committed to her and her people even at the cost of my sane, safe, comfy way of life.  If I have To Write Love On Her Arms then imma get a tattoo of Rory on my bicep. Or maybe on the saggle that hangs down from where my tricep used to be.
That's in the Bible- look it up. The love/tattoo/follow that woman thing, not the raccoon pants or saggle arm part.
That I know of.

 (Now you can use my blog in Sunday School too.  WTH?! I AM brilliant.  I have crashed the church  market, they can't throw me out, and the people who only come a few times a year will totally like me more than the dry devotionals and will read my blog instead for spiritual guidance.
TBH- I don't need more people to read this.  My self worth is tied to my performance in other areas, my thickness and width, and my lack of ability to maintain long term friendships.  except as above referenced mentally ill friends and family.  Besides, I'm as qualified to be a spiritual guide as Lazarus.  The Ferret.  The guy Jesus raised from the dead probably knows his shit.)

God doesn't really need my help. Unique doesn't need help at the petstore and Jen doesn't need me to send traffic her way- they is all doing just fine without me.  As are Damn GirlMo Isom,  James GrobPeople I Want to Punch in the Throat, and my neighbors Natta, Mindy, Lara, and Jennifer.  Really, I'm not writing all of this so famous people will thank me for increasing their traffic. (But, you're welcome James.  Here come ten depressed women to check you out.  Make them laugh, please).  I'm writing because at 2am I'm still awake writing a blog- if I get it all down on paper it's no longer inside of me threatening the life it belongs to.  (Sorry, Anna Nalick, now you too are part of my flying monkey circus circle of virtual friends.)
I am writing this, and everything I write, so that you don't feel alone.  You are not.
If you think you can not take another day or another breath- call someone.  Read all of the links in this post before you do anything desperate.  Stand in the street and yell, "Heeeeellllllp".  There are helpers out there if you look for them.  Google Fred Rogers and spend all the time you need listening to his soft, loving coo.  He is my first love.

I do have actual friends but you'll have to track down another blog to find her, or She, or Two Feet, or a Bunny Princess to read about them.  You might also have to prove you are not a robot.
Or go ask my neighbors.

It might be pathological, but only a support group and the internet have effectively and safely connected me to those who are like me and who understand; who make me laugh, make me feel good and - gawd forbid not feel NORMAL- but okay.

And for that, I thank her.  It. Them.
Thank you.  Thank you all.