Turns out, while you were slaving away at your cushy desk job, I was over here earning my living as a bonafide feline social media strategist.
You read that right.
I run the social media accounts of three cats.
And not just any cats.
These cats are psychics.
Legit fucking psychics, y'all.
No worries. I'll wait here while you let that settle. You got it? No? Need another minute? That's cool. I've got nothing else to do. Just tell me when it... aha! There you go. The full enormity of my coolness has hit you. While you're working your corporate soul-sucking job, I'm undertaking the soul-revivifying task of sending out tweets for Opal, Smokey, and Rose, the trio of clairvoyant kitties who reside in the southeast's most hallowed spiritual shop.
In other words: My career is on fire, and yes, you can go ahead and alert your children that they can grow up to be anything they want.
Here's the deal: A few years back, I left my journalism job to battle an obesity-causing thyroid tumor and a depression that caused a suicide attempt(ish). Only recently did I decide to dip my grossly unpedicured toes into the pool of the employed.
Rather than taking the comfortable route of finding a job opening and applying for it, I instead got the (admittedly unexpected) impulse to e-mail the owner of a nearby New Age store to ask if I could be the social media ghost writer for her three furbabies. I never actually thought she'd agree and ask me to get right on that.
Thus it came to be that I walked into this store, strolled past shelves of healing stones, meandered beyond the Feng Shui display, deftly avoided the gaggle of geriatric gals choosing their smudging sage, and found my way into a room reserved for those practitioners offering services in the realms of astrology, channeling, crystal energy balancing, Egyptian healing, intuitive graphology, mediumship, numerology, palmistry, past life regressions, Reiki, twin flame counseling, tarot, and, obviously, psychic communications with pets both in this world and the next.
The owner was a smiley sweetie, and the cats purred as we all discussed my new position. Basically, I'd do all the things hipster techies are expected to do nowadays on a plethora of platforms -- Twitter, Facebook, SnapChat, Vine, etc. -- ......expect I would do it as the cat(s).
Clearly, I OWNED this job.
I crafted blog posts like woah. Those kitties poured their hearts into walking folks through how to read fur balls with the same clarity one could expect when reading tea leaves.
I constructed clever tweets sneakily intended to double as marketing missives. The cats would type, "Come in Saturday from 10-4 for our 50% discount red dot sale. Wait! Red dot?!? WHERE????"
I captured on video their inebriated introspections as they came down from their catnip highs, and I posted that shit on YouTube. Then, I secretly Periscoped the fat one knocking all of the cauldrons off the shelves for no damn good reason, because, well, cats.
It was blissfull, y'all. Absolutely blissful.
But I went a tad too far when I sent the shop owner an e-mail from the cats informing her that they were on strike, as they had a "feline" it was illegal to make them work on "Caturdays."
Okay, that last bit? Yeah. Utter rubbish. Didn't happen.
But the rest did.
Or, rather, it could've.
Alas, my project never came to be, much in the same way no spirits materialized, despite the assurances to the contrary provided me by the medium formerly known as Divinity Poppywolf.
So, here's the deal: I did land a gig running the social media accounts of a psychic shop's three kitties. And I did devise a detailed strategy to increase the store's web traffic. And, yes, I did spend hours writing material, such as that blog post about hair ball readings and that tweet about the red dot sale.
Unfortunately, the shop owner -- bless her hippie heart -- never managed to get on the ball (pun intended, with the obvious implication that the ball in question was crystal.) She was just swamped. If a famous author/guru wasn't kvetching about the provided seating for his "Zen Art of Overcoming Negativity" lecture, then the owl handler was worried about the foul's feathers being plucked by the cats again. We agreed that maybe it wasn't the best time for her to launch a big online kitty presence.
And that's okay. After all, the pay wasn't that great, and my bank was getting sick of dealing with the bi-weekly direct deposits of dead mice. (Just kidding. I got paid in real money.)
Obviously, I was sad: firstly, because that was so clearly my dream job, and secondly, because I had been so absorbed with my new work that I plumb forgot about this here blog. But with my schedule freed, I found myself ready to reacquaint myself with my three readers. Then several things happened in rapid succession to distract me from reaching out to y'all:
1) My husband's Nana entered Hospice, and we traveled to see her one last time, and during that trip, my husband's lesbian aunt's wife unbuttoned her pants as I was hugging her, prompting my husband to say to his lesbian aunt, "I'm sorry my wife tried to get into your wife's pants."
2) Niantic released Pokémon Go, and the post office half a block away became a gym, and I had to defend our turf (#TeamMystic).
3) More shootings of unarmed black men prompted massive protests in my city, shutting down major intersections.
4) Completely unrelated to the previous point, a nice young man in my apartment complex, who had visited our home multiple times, was violently murdered.
5) My Bernie Action Figure finally came in the mail, and, well, duh, I had to spend two weeks doing nothing but manipulating the articulating arm to point at screenshots of Hillary. But not in a sexist way. In a hilarious juvenile way.
And that's why I wasn't here to blog: psychic cats needed my professional help, Nana passed, my husband's Aunt wanted a piece of me, Charizards needed catching, racism kept being a dick, and I got a doll.
True story: Life would be super swell if we all embraced our OMG side instead of living a Facebook-friendly existence. So, let it out. What have you been up to lately? Did you get a Bernie doll? Don't tell me if you got a Trump one instead. I don't want to hear that shit. Ooo! You can always share your cat pics. You know how much I love that, and you also know that I'll respond to your cat pic with a cat pic of my own! It's like a kitty cuddle exchange! Or, I guess you could always tell me what YOUR weirdest job was... Feel free to disclose details. You're safe here.