I know I wrote a love letter to my new BFF Topamax at some point recently. I’d go through my archives but all of the punctuation looks wonky when I do that and then I get stabby because the only way I know how to fix that is to do it by hand. For all eight hundred of my posts.

Like I don’t have anything better to do than, you know, that. I’d rather pluck my leg hairs with my teeth, thankyouverymuch.

And I do loves me that drug, trust me. Today, for the first time in 5ish months, I haven’t had to take anything for my head and that, trust me, is something that kind of makes me want to pop a celebratory Vicodin.

I’ve been sort of downplaying the side effects though, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life it’s this: the more attractive you are, the crazier you are, cheese in a can isn’t natural, hot dogs are proof that God loves us.

The only thing we can control in life is how we react to situations we’re put into.

I can, for example, choose to take my fucked up childhood and use that as a crutch, as a means to justify my bitterness, my feminism, my hatred of the world, the reason no one loves me or the reason that I hate addicts or people who mock addicts or people who are successful where I am not.

Or I can say, WOW, that was fucked up, have a good laugh, try to remember that at the end of the day we’re all–even OUR PARENTS–only human. And human beings? They fuck up.

But the Topamax is slowly eroding my memory, which, while it can be the butt of many jokes at my expense, and I’m certain it will be, because OBVIOUSLY, and I do expect to get it back, but for now? I can barely remember to wipe my ass. Come to think of it…

Anyway.

The problem with this isn’t that it’s now making me a total nutter with the attention span of a gnat, it’s that no one expects it from me. It’s like going to a steak house, ordering a fillet, and then getting served a stir-fry (this was, come to think of it, the same analogy I used to describe my BlogHer experience!). Totally unexpected.

You can call me a lot of things and make most of them stick, hell, I’ll HELP you call me a lot of things, but absent minded is nowhere on that list. Self-deprecating, fiercely loyal, unable to use a comma to save my own life, totally self-absorbed (dude. I write a BLOG), all of those fit, but having to adjust to having a memory bank so full of holes that dust is pouring out, now, I barely know how to handle it.

The symptoms, the doctors say, will subside. And I’ll adjust. I’m getting a real! live! day! planner! because I cannot fucking stand having a calendar on a PDA/phone/computer, no matter how many times I’ve argued this with Dave. Running tally on this particular argument is 597 and he’s STILL not convinced me.

I’m also making folders in my Google Reader because I realized with 464 feeds (and counting) there is no way I can possibly keep up with everyone every single day and still manage to stay sane. Well, okay, so there’s a good debate there as to if a person who calls herself “Aunt Becky” can ever call herself “sane,” but you know. I do want to stay connected to all of you, but I need some tips as to how.

So, this, my Internet friends, is where Your Aunt Becky turns the tables neatly and asks you how YOU manage to do it all? Do you have any tips for me on how to get and stay organized?

Why NO, I didn’t make that cuppy-cake. Of course I did not. Because if I had, it would not have been a) symmetrical or 2) frosting-ed. I am many, many things, none of which springs to mind is “aesthetically oriented.”

But that picture is important, not because it clearly shows my bully-ness as I am taunting my son with a cuppy-cake, because not two seconds after this shot, I gave him the delicious slice ‘o’ heaven, but because it fully solidifies that he is my son.

Historically, Alex has eschewed anything cake-related in favor of gnawing on, well, anything else, including, but not limited to edamame and well, lately, air. But now, NOW he sees that cake is next to godliness and occasionally allows me to ply him with sugary, springy goodness.

Anyway.

I was going to come here and whine to you about my My Grains. Give you a list of my symptoms and complain bitterly about what a pain in the pooper it is to find a cure for something that could be caused by, well, anything.

It would have been a rousing, self-serving, irritating post, full of long-winded descriptions of each of my symptoms, along with their possible causes, the likes of which, along with discussions of my recent colonoscopies are better suited for Thanksgiving Dinner Table Discussions (don’t all clamor to thank me at once, those of you who will, no doubt, be stuck with me at Thanksgiving).

I decided against it.

It served no purpose, this post I’d half written, other than to prune down my readership and annoy me later when I realized what a sniveling baby I was being. I have nasty migraines and they suck and 50 million red fire ants don’t give a shit.

So today, armed with my Topamax and Vicodin (which, squee!), I am going on a mission. No, thankfully not Mission: Manband.

I am dragging The Daver out to make a care package for my friend Heather, who is pregnant and sick as fuck. You, of course, know Heather and Maddie and Mike and Binky. If you do not, I’ll give you a moment to go and catch up and come back.

HEATHER, GO AWAY NOW AND EAT SOME MASHED POTATOES OR DORITOS OR SOMETHING.

I MEAN IT, HEATHER.

So, I want to make a care package for Heather, not really for Binky, because Heather is the sick one. I’ll make Binky one once my niece or nephew makes his or her debut, but this time, I want to make something for Heather.

Any ideas, Internet?

And because, saying that I “stay home with my kids” seems to elicit looks that fall on the spectrum somewhere between ‘pity’ and ‘disgust’ (if I had to choose a color to describe the look, I’d choose puce), I’m “opening up my horizons.”

My high school counselor would be proud of me. In fact, somewhere, he’s probably beaming into his “Time Magazine’s Man Of The Year” mirror and adjusting his afro. He knows not why.

So I’m going to go back to work.

No, no, not like ACTUAL work, like WRITING, which isn’t REALLY work at all. It appears that I will be contributing to another website (details to follow, for those of you sitting on the edge of your seat, biting your nails and twitching) and avidly looking for other places to brighten up with my sunshine and rainbow pee.

By “brighten up” I mean, of course, write for. Just because I need more to do. No, seriously I do. Wiping adorable asses, is, well, not always quite as satisfying if I don’t have anything of my own to work for.

So there you have it: I’m looking for more places to write and defile with my lewd mouth (or my scrubbed with bleach version. Whatever). Holla if you think of anything because You, Internet, are smart and I am not.

(also, does foul language on blogs bother you?)

Also, have no fear, Internet, I’m not even remotely considering abandoning you. IN FACT, I’m thinking that the very NEXT thing I am going to do is to start an advice column. Oh yeah, I’m gonna give ADVICE to people who send me QUESTIONS. Do you think I should put it on another URL? Or should I just plop them here as I see fit?

Hm.

In the very NAME of not leaving you, I wanted to let you know that I am totally going to be responding TO comments IN the comments, because I’m dead tired of trying to email people who leave me slightly incorrect email addresses. Why yes, I AM lazy.

Also, Facebook has taught me that it’s WAY more fun to have dialogue than a one-sided conversations. Hats off to YOU, Facebook.

Oh, and these questions I’m asking you here? Aren’t the rhetorical types, I’m looking for real! live! answers! and! opinions! Because, obviously.

Please humor my mother. Please?