BB Grey–musings

“I wasn’t heartbroken, just lonely in that special way where your friends exist like emergency plastic car keys—useful in theory, but likely to snap off in the lock when you actually need them.”

3:30 AM Came Fast

3:30 came fast this morning, and the Writing Gods demanded my attendance. I rolled out of bed, bleary-eyed, and started my morning with what I thought was a hilarious piece—a flash poem/play on Flashdance, because that’s what I had stopped on for what I swore was just a second.

Spoiler: It was an hour.

(Come on, it was Jennifer Beals, that scene—the gyrating, the close-up, an ass so sculpted that even today’s Photoshop looks like a joke in comparison.)

The credits were rolling, and my abandoned microwave dinner sat cold and neglected, despite the enthusiastic three-minute countdown I had punched into the keypad.

I considered posting the piece. But then, as I stared at it, it seemed less funny… or occasionally more funny, depending on the tilt of my head. So I pivoted to the real deal: journaling. It’s my early-morning modus operandi—the raw, unfiltered, sometimes-too-honest therapy session I never signed up for. Writing at this hour grounds me, sometimes to a level that feels like being buried alive, which is exactly why I remind myself that maybe—just maybe—I shouldn’t write in the mornings.

But I have this thing where I write unedited, straight-up thought dumps for 500 words. No stopping, no overthinking. Just me and my keyboard, letting the words spill out however they come. Then, when I hit that magical 500-word mark, I go back, polish (lol), edit, delete, or whatever needs doing. Goal met. Mission accomplished.

This method works for me. It keeps my thoughts honest and my arthritic fingers moving. And yes, I just called my fingers arthritic. Apparently, I’ve aged overnight. Let’s chalk it up to years of back-breaking work and not, say, actual old age.

Valentine’s Day: A Study in Avoidance

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, which rubbed me raw in ways I wasn’t prepared for. The night was worse. I tried to check out early with a two-glass-of-wine-and-an-overly-ambitious-dose-of-Unisom combo.

Don’t judge. It was Friday, and I had sleep to catch up on. Monday through Friday robs me blind, so I make up for it where I can.

“Yes, your Honor.”

The night had a weird vibe, though. I wasn’t heartbroken, just lonely in that special way where you realize you have people who care about you but… not in the way you need. They exist like one of those emergency plastic car keys—the ones that are supposed to unlock your car when you’re in a bind. But all you can picture is it snapping off in the lock, leaving you with a bigger, more expensive problem.

(For reference: breaking the back window of a 1990 Isuzu Trooper used to run about $185. Cheaper than the key-in-lock scenario.)

Where was I?

Ah yes—emergency keys, friends, loneliness.

Me. Last night.

So I went to bed and left the day behind me. Honestly, I hate these mandatory participation holidays, where you’re expected to buy things, post things, and perform affection like some kind of trained seal. We need a holiday from holidays. They require too much effort.

(500 words reached.)

But because I’m a glutton for punishment, I took a break and did some light Google sleuthing. Just out of curiosity, I checked what national holiday today is.

And guess what?

“Single Awareness Day.”

I. Kid. You. Not.

Case and point—I give up. But hey, at least I got some decent writing fodder out of it.