Summer’s gone and changed my mind. Leaves are falling, well, not actually, global warming is making the city pretty summery for October. But what a hell. It’s better to think they are falling and imagine beautiful red, orange, brown landscapes.

In the meantime, here are some autumn thoughts…

Modern life
can get
pretty bitchy
when
wearing heels

You just read it. Modern life can get deeply shitty. With all my little white woman problems. But what can I say. They are my problems.

Today I woke up early with my fucking pain in the butt. Yes, emotional stress came as “a pain in the ass”. Literally. My back hurts 24/7. All day long, reminding me about all the bullshit I’m going into.

I’ve decided to get divorced at 39, having in mind that this whole issue will take about 1 year to unfold, I will be one more middle-aged woman in their 40s, divorcing. Just as the other 50% of women who divorce at 40. But you know what? I’ve decided to wear heels again, like saying to all the wankers out there, new moms with their happy little babies: fuck you bitches. Fuck them all with their stupid new mom´s attitude. They still don’t know what is yet to come. But I’m over it now, I wear heels again, and I spend all my new free time travelling, escaping, working out at the gym. Because moms at 39 gotta be hot and wear really expensive heels, like showing the world all you can do at once. Yes, you can divorce, wear expensive shoes that you bought by yourself and be freaking hot by exhaustion at the gym. And you wanna know something else? I could fuck younger guys. Not only because of the heels, but because I’m supposed to be intelligent, and funny and open minded and happy about my miserable Instagrammable life. 40’s are the new 30’s, 30’s are the new 20’s. Fuck you all, motherfucker cunts.

All I want to do is to get freaking wasted, but guess what: women at 39 are supposed to be sober, because of the calories you know? “No wine for me, thank you”. So -my other 40s friends & I - eat psychedelic mushrooms and smoke lots of weed, just to hear my teenage daughter at the back judging me for getting a little too high. Yes, Daddy can go to the pub and come back home crawling, but mummy? No, mummy can’t get high. Mummy needs to be beautiful, well-spoken and cook delicious meals. Not like me, I burn everything, “Today we have smoky meatballs” is what I will say in an attempt to hide the truth of my contempt for cooking. And my daughter will remind me how bad I’m at the kitchen, how little effort I put into family matters: bad mummy with high heels and a joint in her mouth, cooking “smoky chicken” and raw carrots for breakfast.

Fuck them all. Tossers. You know what I want? I wanna fucking smash that beautiful Halloween pumpkin that is resting in my kitchen with my expensive heel, and not wash my face, crispy hair and go with my dirty clothes to my Wednesday recap meeting via Zoom, and smoke lots of weed while lifting 200kg in a floral satin tuxedo at the gym. And then, go back home crying like the biggest wanker of them all. Yeah, that’s me, fucking loser crying while biking back home in expensive clothing and an organic relaxing cup of tea.

I have also started wearing sheer clothing. Sheers plus heels. Red lips. No one will suspect about a woman’s vulnerability when wearing thin-semi-transparent clothing. I hide all the time, I hide by showing the world my naked nipples, my butt in pain, my workout abs. Disguised as a successful influencer with no more problems than her clothes. But actually, seen from the outside, those are my problems. Nothing tremendous. Just a rhetorical question: ¿What colour should I wear today?