I now had a character, that’s me. I had a premise, the search for happiness. And I had a character arc, unhappy to happy (or lets call a sense of well being). In short, I had my film. And I was off — with the enthusiasm of a kid.

“…for every woman who ever pulled her hair out trying to explain–for the 46th time–the importance of putting the toilet seat down, for Christ’s sake, or that burping the national anthem after every meal is not a constitutional right…

Since in this state (i.e., the state of being on painkillers), my brain is floating in the ether, if you’re looking for sense here, turn away.

I have a bone to pick with you. You are a million tiny dark clouds that, en masse, have been growing inside of me, haunting me. Terrorizing me, really. You are like pigeons who hang around garbage dumpsters. . .

At that point, I turned to international adoption. I learned that not every country will allow single parents to adopt, which eliminated several countries from consideration right off the bat.

We just don’t have words in the English language to describe between the pupa stage of our child-bearing years and the full grown butterfly of elderhood.