One day, I’ll write another blog about funny things again.

But today and others haven’t been those days.

And I miss writing. I started blogging in the first place because I wanted to be a voice in the night, like Cindy Lubbock on her radio show.

That was 15 years ago, but feels like 10 lifetimes.

I know I’m not alone in feeling alone this year. But that’s one reason I wanted to write this.

I wanted to say that I’ve been crying since I woke up on my 45th birthday today and put on “Impractical Jokers” just to survive.

My Lyft driver had ladybugs on the mask she made herself, and we bonded over life.

My baby brother and his beautiful wife gave me the most beautiful yellow rose (favorite flower, in the spirit of Gia Carangi) bouquet I’ve ever seen, and there’s a gift from my middle brother on my desk that I’ve saved for my birth time: 2:41. Half an hour from now.

The love I’ve received in between then and now is immeasurable.

I want to wrap this tragic world into a bow, but just can’t try to anymore.

But maybe even that is a bow unto itself. Maybe it’s okay to not have answers, to not know what the next step is supposed to be.

One of my friends posted this on Facebook:

“Unpopular opinion: I don’t think your life has to have a purpose, or you a Grand Ambition; I think it’s okay to just wander through life finding interesting things until you die.”

I’ve spent my past 45 years trying to find love and hope. It’s taken me this long to realize that probably every one does.

So I’m posting this. Because maybe someone needs that voice in the night, even if it’s 2:30 in Colorado time. And maybe that voice doesn’t have to be perfect — just there.