The past couple of nights, I’ve watched a few episodes of The Simpsons before going to sleep and it’s helped ease my nerves. I enjoy cartoons for adults, and cartoons in general. When I moved out of Gayle’s and back in with Mom and her boyfriend, the boyfriend watched The Simpsons after getting home from work nearly every weeknight. Typing these words out, I’m sure I’ve written of this before - how watching the show with him helped bring me up to speed on the goings on of the real world after living in what I call Religious Isolation. Going from living with an adult who controlled every aspect of my existence (to the point where I wasn’t allowed to wipe my own ass at the age of 10 because I wasn’t trusted with doing so,) to watching a show where the 10 year old son is essentially the devil reincarnated but was also accepted as such blew my fucking mind. There was something else underlying that I couldn’t have recognized while in the thick of it all: there was comfort in the routine.

At this time in my life, The Simpsons aired twice a night every night, once at 5PM, and then again at 6PM, with Malcolm in the Middle snagging the 5:30 PM slot. The places in which I watched the show would change, because we rarely lived in one spot for more than 6 months for most of my childhood. After each move, once we were as settled as we were going to be, I’d find myself entranced by the glow of the TV, grateful for the moments of consistency the show was able to provide me; even more grateful for the escape. I didn’t realize how much I needed that both until I was well into my twenties - the realization is as recent as last night, if I’m being totally honest.

I follow a few Instagram accounts that pull stills from the show and it was from those posts that I remembered I can stream the show anytime I want. What a time to be alive. 10 year old me would be so stoked to know this is my life now - that I don’t have to rely on the routines of a show schedule to bring me peace or comfort, but that I still can if I choose to, because I can do whatever the fuck I want. Love that for her, love that for me.

This is the last entry I’ll be writing while on my lunch break at my current place of employment. It all feels so final but in a way that’s exciting, not sad. I’ve been waiting for excitement to make its way to me - like a teacher handing back a test I know I absolutely aced. I was asked how I’ll be celebrating, but I think existing in myself is celebration enough; there’s a firework show happening inside of my chest and I’ve got a front row seat.