Embarrassment
I'm 47 and My Sleep is a Threat To Society . Content Warning.
I’m 47 Years Old and Sleep Is a Threat to Society Let me be very clear about something. I do not sleep. Not because I don’t want to. Not because I’m trying to be productive. But because my brain refuses to shut the fuck down. I am 47 years old, and sleep and I are no longer in a relationship. We are barely on speaking terms. At night, when normal people are winding down, my brain clocks in like it just drank a Red Bull and slapped the time clock. This is when I do my best work. This is when I am: writing stories people asked me to write producing content restructuring my entire business redesigning my clothing line planning luxury 420 corsets and blazers like it’s Fashion Week Meanwhile, the rest of the world is unconscious. My Brain Does Not Respect Time I will lie down and say, “Okay, let me go to sleep.” And my brain immediately responds: > “Absolutely not. Now seems like a great time to rethink your entire life.” Thoughts start firing off like popcorn. Ideas I didn’t care about all day suddenly become urgent. Things I forgot for months show up like: > “Hey girl, remember me?” No. No, I don’t want to remember you at 2:47 a.m. Sleep Schedules Are a Myth People love to say: “You need a routine.” Baby. I have tried. My routine is chaos with ambition. Some nights I’m up until 4 a.m. Some nights I don’t sleep at all. Some nights I sleep for three hours and wake up like, “That’s enough.” My body does not acknowledge bedtime. It acknowledges inspiration. What I’m Actually Running On Let’s talk about fuel. Because it’s not sleep. I am currently running on: weed hot fries watermelon Kool-Aid vibes and audacity That is my diet. That is my sleep aid. That is my lifestyle. Is it healthy? Probably not. Is it effective? Apparently, yes. Because shit is getting done. Nighttime Is When the Ideas Get Disrespectful During the day, my brain is manageable. At night? That’s when it decides: “Let’s rebrand the whole company.” Suddenly I’m sketching corsets in my head. Thinking about fabric. Thinking about tailoring. Thinking about luxury pieces for the 420 community. I’m designing blazers at 3 a.m. like: “This could work.” Sleep is not invited to these meetings. The Weed Does Not Help Like It Used To Now let’s address the lie. People say weed helps you sleep. It USED TO. Now? It just makes my thoughts more creative. Instead of sleeping, I’m sitting there like: “What if I did this differently?” I’m high, hydrated, and fully invested in my future. Meanwhile, my body is begging for rest. Sleep Tries to Catch Me Slipping Sometimes sleep sneaks up on me. I’ll sit down for “just a minute.” Next thing I know, I wake up confused, thirsty, and mad because now my schedule is ruined. If I nap? I’m up all night. If I don’t nap? I’m still up all night. Explain the math. Mornings Are Personal Attacks Morning comes whether I’m ready or not. And when I haven’t slept? Everything is louder. Lights are brighter. Sounds are aggressive. People talking too early is criminal. I’m functional, but I’m not friendly. The Real Problem Is My Brain Is Too Loud This isn’t about insomnia. This is about a brain that won’t stop producing. I have ideas. Goals. Responsibilities. Businesses. My brain doesn’t want rest — it wants results. So while other people are sleeping, I’m building. Not because I want to be awake. But because my brain said, “We’re not done yet.” Final Thoughts From a 47-Year-Old Who Does Not Dream — She Plans Sleep is optional at this stage. Not because I don’t value it. But because my mind refuses to shut down long enough to enjoy it. If you see me up at 3 a.m. posting, writing, designing, or reworking my entire life? Mind your business. I’ll sleep later. Maybe.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
I'm 47 and My Taste Buds are a Threat To Society Currently Running a Conspiracy . Content Warning.
I’m 47 Years Old and My Taste Buds Are Running a Conspiracy I don’t know who changed my stomach’s settings, but I would like to file a formal complaint. Because at 47, eating is no longer a casual activity. It’s a medical event. At this point, if I want to eat any goddamn thing ANYTHING — I have to take nausea medication. Not occasionally. Not “if my stomach is acting up.” Not “maybe later.” Every. Single. Day. Sometimes three or four of them motherfuckers in one day because my stomach wakes up already on level 20 for absolutely no reason. No warning. No trigger. Just chaos. I haven’t done anything wrong. I didn’t offend it. I didn’t eat reckless. I didn’t drink a gallon of hot sauce before bed. And yet here we are. My Stomach Is No Longer a Team Player My stomach used to be dependable. We had an understanding. I fed it, it behaved. Now? It’s unpredictable. Emotional. Dramatic. And absolutely refuses to cooperate without medication like it’s on strike. And the wildest part? My taste buds have decided to change personalities too. Foods I hated my entire life? Suddenly acceptable. Foods I loved? Now suspicious. Explain it. Let’s Start With Onions — THE SWITCH-UP I used to not eat onions. Ever. Not raw. Not cooked. Not hidden. Not “you won’t even taste it.” Absolutely not. Now? I’m fine. Onions are in things now and I don’t even flinch. They’re sautéed, caramelized, mixed in — and my stomach is like, “Yeah, okay.” WHAT. Who approved this change? Who updated the software? Because my younger self would be horrified watching me eat onions voluntarily. Brussels Sprouts: The Biggest Plot Twist of My Life Now let’s talk about Brussels sprouts. I used to look at them like they were punishment. Like they were invented to humble children. But now? You sauté them motherfuckers with some onion, bell peppers, and some good-ass seasoning? I’m tearing them bitches UP. Eating them like they owe me money. Who am I? Because the woman I used to be would NEVER. This is identity theft. Seafood Still Ain’t It (And Don’t Sneak It Into My Mouth) Now let me be clear. I have never been a seafood girl. Shrimp? No. Crab? No. None of that shit. One day my sister says, “Close your eyes. Let me put something in your mouth.” First of all — pause. That sentence alone should have ended the experiment. But I trusted her. Family betrayal always hits hardest. She put it in my mouth. I almost died. Not because it tasted bad — but because the texture betrayed me. I am a texture person. If something is: • sticky • gooey • gummy I am OUT. My body will reject it like a bad organ transplant. I don’t care how seasoned it is, how fresh it is, or how expensive it is. Texture will shut the whole operation down. THIS Is Why I Need the Menu Ahead of Time This is also why — if you ever ask me out — I need DETAILS. Not vibes. Not “we’ll figure it out.” Not “I know a place.” Absolutely not. I need: • the name of the restaurant • the date • the time • and MOST IMPORTANTLY — THE MENU Because I have to study the menu. I need to scan it like it’s a legal document. I need to know: Is there something I can eat? Is my stomach going to revolt? Are there safe foods? Are there hidden ingredients? I cannot walk into a restaurant blind and just “figure it out.” That is not adventurous. That is reckless. My Anxiety and My Stomach Are in Cahoots My anxiety, my PTSD, and my stomach are in a full-blown alliance. They have meetings. They sit down together before I leave the house and say: > “No surprises.” They do not play. If I ignore them? My stomach will embarrass me publicly. So yes I need the menu. And no that does not make me difficult. It makes me prepared. Eating Is Now a Strategy Game Eating at 47 is no longer about hunger. It’s about: • timing • medication • mood • texture • seasoning • and whether my stomach feels like cooperating today Some days it’s cool. Some days it’s dramatic. Some days it’s like, “Absolutely not, try again tomorrow.” This is not a lifestyle choice. This is survival. The Real Conspiracy The real conspiracy is how nobody warns you. Nobody tells you that after a certain age: • your bladder switches up • your memory disappears • your eyesight rebels • and now your stomach and taste buds join the chaos Everything just starts malfunctioning quietly. And you’re expected to adapt without complaint. Final Thoughts From a 47-Year-Old With Trust Issues and Antacids Nearby I don’t know what happens after a certain age, but it feels like your body starts freelancing. Your stomach decides what it will and won’t tolerate. Your taste buds rewrite the rules. Your anxiety becomes the project manager. And you just want to eat in peace. So if I ask for the menu ahead of time, mind your business. If I take medication before I eat, mind your business. If I refuse to “just try it,” MIND YOUR BUSINESS. I am not being dramatic. I am being 47.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
I'm 47 and My Eyesight is a Threat To Society In Active Rebellion . Content Warning.
I’m 47 Years Old and My Eyesight Is A Threat to Society in Active Rebellion Let me tell you something about my eyesight. It is not declining quietly. It is not fading gracefully. It is acting out. I am 47 years old and my eyes have decided they are no longer interested in teamwork. I own at least 17 pairs of glasses. Seventeen. Maybe more. I’ve lost count which honestly tracks, given the topic. Now mind you, my favorite color is turquoise. Always has been. So of course my favorite pair of glasses are turquoise Tiffany frames that cost me almost $600 goddamn dollars, because yes, I will pay for aesthetics even if they betray me later. So one day, I take my precious turquoise glasses off and put them on my bed. On. My. Bed. And then they disappear. I am standing in my bedroom, staring at my bed, KNOWING my glasses are somewhere on that bed… and I cannot see them. Why? Because the frames BLEND IN with my bedding. I spend 45 minutes to an hour patting down my own bed like I’m searching for contraband, all because I cannot see the very thing I need in order to see. This is disrespectful. Glasses Are No Longer Accessories — They Are Stashed Around the House When I was younger, glasses stayed on my face. All day. No issues. Now? I have glasses strategically placed throughout my house like emergency supplies. One pair in the living room. One pair in the bedroom. One pair in the bathroom. One pair near the door. Why? Because I never know what kind of vision I’m going to need in any given moment. Distance? Reading? Phone scrolling? Driving at night during the apocalypse? It’s all different now. Watching TV Is a Multi-Step Operation Let’s talk about television. I can no longer watch TV like a normal person. If I’m watching from far away, glasses ON. If I’m watching up close, glasses OFF. If I’m watching TV AND scrolling my phone? Baby. We are in experimental territory. I’m lifting my glasses up like an old man reading a menu. Sometimes I forget I’ve pushed them up and I’m just walking around the house half-blind, squinting at everything like I don’t trust it. The Phone Screen Betrayal Looking at my phone is its own journey. With glasses on, the screen is too close. Without glasses, the world disappears. So now I’m constantly doing this little glasses dance: • on • off • up • down I look ridiculous. If someone were to watch me, they’d think I was performing a very specific, very confused form of interpretive dance. Night Driving Is a Sci-Fi Movie I Did Not Consent To Driving at night? Oh no. The glare. THE GLARE. Streetlights look like portals. Headlights look like UFOs. Traffic lights look like alien signals. I’m driving squinting like: “Is that a car… or the end of days?” I’m convinced aliens are coming, because there is no reason lights should be doing all this. I know it’s my eyes. But still. Suspicious. The Real Problem: I Can’t FIND My Glasses Without My Glasses This is the real insult. The very thing I need to see… I cannot see without it. I’ve checked my head. My pockets. The fridge (don’t ask). Only to realize the glasses were RIGHT THERE the whole time. Just invisible. Like my patience. So What’s Happening? I don’t know. Is it age? Hormones? Perimenopause? Stress? Weed? All of the above in a trench coat? Probably. What I do know is that my eyes are freelancing now. They do what they want. When they want. And I am just along for the ride. Final Thoughts From a 47-Year-Old With Vision Issues and Taste If you see me squinting at something, give me a minute. If I say “hold on, let me get my other glasses,” don’t judge. If I can’t find my glasses but I know they’re nearby? Pray for me. Because my eyesight is no longer something I control. It’s a lifestyle.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
I'm 47 and My Memory is a Threat to Society. Content Warning.
I Am 47 Years Old and My Memory Is in Witness Protection Let me start by saying this so nobody gets confused. Yes, I smoke weed. Not recreationally. Professionally. I own two businesses. One of them is a clothing line that literally revolves around blazz'n up. So yes — I smoke like Snoop Dogg on a three-day weekend. This is not new information. This has been consistent. What is new is the way my brain has decided to betray me at the worst possible times. Because I am 47 years old, allegedly going through perimenopause or premenopause or menopause’s evil little cousin — I don’t know which one it is, but whoever it is, they are messing with my short-term memory like it owes them money. And it’s starting to concern me. The Thought That Never Makes It to the Destination Here’s how it usually starts. I’ll be sitting down. Calm. Peaceful. Minding my business. Then — a thought appears. A good thought. An important thought. A purposeful thought. Something like: “I need to grab my phone.” “I should look that up.” “Let me go get that thing.” So I stand up. And that’s where everything goes wrong. Because the second I leave the room where the thought was born, my brain says: > “We don’t know her.” I walk into the next room and immediately stop. Why am I here? Who sent me? What was the mission? I just be standing there like a Sim whose task got canceled. No memory. No clue. No context. Just vibes and confusion. How the fuck did I get amnesia in three seconds? Did I Just Forget… Everything? And it’s not just once. It’s CONSTANT. I will retrace my steps like: “Okay… I was sitting… I stood up… I came in here…” Nothing. The thought has been erased like it never existed. Now I gotta sit back down in the original spot like I’m rebooting my brain, hoping the thought respawns. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it’s gone forever. RIP to whatever that idea was. The Binge-Watching Problem That Should Not Exist Let’s talk about how disrespectful this has gotten. I will be sitting on my couch: • high • relaxed • eating snacks • watching a whole-ass crime show Engaged. Focused. Invested. Then the show goes to commercial. And suddenly I’m like… “What the fuck am I watching?” Not the episode name. Not the plot. THE SHOW. I forget the NAME of the show I am CURRENTLY WATCHING. I’m staring at the TV like it betrayed me. Is this Alzheimer’s? Is this early-onset dementia? Or is my brain just running on Windows 95? Because why do I need the show to come BACK from commercial for me to remember what the fuck I was enjoying? This feels aggressive. Google Maps Is My Emotional Support App Now let’s talk about driving. I have lived in Kansas City my entire goddamn life. MY. ENTIRE. LIFE. And yet. I still use GPS. Everywhere. Not new places. Not far places. Regular places. Why? Because my brain refuses to retain directions like it used to. Also — highways give me anxiety now. If I can’t get there using: • 103rd • 95th • 75th • or 63rd I’m not coming. That’s it. If your location requires a highway, a ramp, a merge, or God forbid a decision.... send my love. I will not be attending. Because I WILL forget where I’m going, miss the exit, panic, and end up in a different state. Weed Is Not the Only Culprit (But It’s Definitely in the Lineup) Now listen. Yes — weed plays a role. But let’s not act like it’s the only suspect. I also have: • anxiety • PTSD • a nervous system that’s been through some shit • and now hormones doing parkour My brain is managing: • trauma • creativity • business decisions • survival • AND remembering why I stood up That’s a lot to ask. So when my memory taps out, I try not to be mad at her. She’s tired. The Part That Really Gets Me What pisses me off is this: I am still sharp. I can: • run businesses • write • problem-solve • read people instantly • remember shit from 1998 with perfect clarity But ask me why I walked into the kitchen? Absolutely not. That file has been deleted. So Here’s Where I’ve Landed I don’t think I’m losing my mind. I think my mind is prioritizing. And unfortunately, it has decided that: • random thoughts • quick errands • and unnecessary directions are no longer worth storage. Honestly? Fair. Final Thoughts From a 47-Year-Old With a Disappearing Train of Thought If you see me standing in a room looking confused, don’t ask questions. If I forget what I was saying mid-sentence, let it go. If I pull out Google Maps to drive somewhere I’ve been 300 times? Mind your business. I’m not lost. My memory just took a smoke break without telling me.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
I Became Strong the Day No One Checked on Me
There’s a strange kind of silence that doesn’t come from being alone. It comes from realizing that people know you’re struggling and still choose not to ask. It’s not the absence of voices—it’s the absence of care. That silence is heavier than solitude, because it reminds you that you are visible, yet unseen.
By Salman Writes9 months ago in Confessions
I Forgot My Password and It Ruined My Entire Day
I forgot my password. Not in a dramatic, end-of-the-world way. Not in a “someone hacked me” way. Just a regular, ordinary, soul-eroding kind of forgot my password. The kind that shouldn’t matter. The kind that absolutely does.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
The Cul-de-Sac of Chaos: Why The Couple Next Door is the Ultimate Suburban Guilty Pleasure
I’ve always been convinced that the quieter a street is, the weirder the people living on it are. You know the vibe-pristine lawns, color-coordinated trash bins, and a silence so thick you could cut it with a hedge trimmer. I remember moving into my first apartment and spending way too much time wondering why the woman in 4B only ever left her house at 3:00 AM carrying a yoga mat. Was she a dedicated athlete or a secret agent? It turns out she just worked the night shift at a bakery, but that spark of "curtain-twitching" paranoia is exactly what The Couple Next Door on Starz feeds on.
By KWAO LEARNER WINFRED9 months ago in Confessions
Watching the Clock
Today was the last day of this terrible weekend. My kids would (hopefully) be returned tonight. I know that it seems to concern people by my use of the word hopefully, but here is the deal: my ex and I have a custody order. It has a list of rules that we jointly agreed to follow. One of those rules is regarding parenting time and exchange times. But, another one of those rules is regarding safety needs that we agreed to follow in the best interests of our disabled son. Those safety needs are not getting followed. Why not? I don't have a good reason. I have offered to help purchase the needed items. I have offered to help find grants or other ways to pay for said items. I have asked why the safety needs that we agreed upon are not being utilized.
By Adora Hooper9 months ago in Confessions
The world is short-staffed
Depending on where you live, it might be hard for you to tell but the world is short-staffed. You may be in a buzzing city, crowded all the time so it would be difficult for you to believe this but overall, the world is short staffed and it doesn’t matter what industry you are talking about. In this article, I am going to cover the hardest hit industries, but before that, let’s try to understand the “why” first.
By real Jema9 months ago in Confessions
