Molly Roxx's Blog

A quick note to everyone! I am in the process of reformatting my blog so there is a lot missing and a lot of pictures and columns and other fancy things being added so, please bear with me and check back often as I am working very hard daily on it to add to it and improve it. I promise it will be completed shortly...Maybe by Sept. firstish. I will announce it on social media so make sure to follow me. My links are on the home page at the bottom. Thank you! xoxoxx -Molly Roxx.

June 28, 2026

Hello, everyone.

I wanted to check in because I've been pretty quiet lately, and I figured you all deserved an update.

Unfortunately, my MS and my mental health have both been giving me a really hard time lately. Things got bad enough that I ended up back in the hospital for a week. It wasn't where I wanted to be, but sometimes our bodies and minds force us to slow down, whether we like it or not.

I'm finally back home now, recovering one day at a time while trying to catch up on work. It's definitely a balancing act, and I'm doing my best to be patient with myself—even if patience isn't always my strongest quality.

While I was in the hospital, doctors also found a mass on my liver. The next step is scheduling a biopsy so we can figure out exactly what's going on. Waiting for answers is never easy, but I'm trying to stay hopeful and take things one appointment at a time.

I know some of you have noticed that I haven't been modeling much lately. The truth is, I just haven't physically or mentally felt up to it. I miss creating, dressing up, and connecting with all of you through photos, and I promise I'll get back into the swing of things as soon as I'm feeling stronger. Thank you for your patience and for sticking by me while I take care of myself.

Life has been pretty hectic for this woman living with four chronic illnesses, but I'm still here, still fighting, and still finding reasons to smile when I can. Your messages, encouragement, and kindness mean more than you probably realize.

Thank you all for continuing to support me through the highs, the lows, and everything in between. I'm hoping for brighter days ahead, and I can't wait to share more with you when I'm able.

And because I refuse to end on a gloomy note...

Dad joke of the day: I tried to organize all my medical paperwork by color... but every time I finished, the doctors gave me another chart. I guess you could say my health has a colorful history.

 July 1, 2026

Well, if anyone was wondering whether the sun has declared war on humanity this summer, I can officially confirm that it has.

Yesterday was one of those days where I had a long list of errands to run, and somehow every single one of them required being directly under the surface of the sun. I spent the day out and about with Nikki and Jim, and while we managed to get everything done, I think we all lost a few years off our lives from the heat alone.

The sunshine wasn't content with simply making me sweat through my clothes. No, apparently it wanted a souvenir. I ended up with a lovely sunburn complete with blisters on my arm. Nothing says "summer fun" quite like looking down and realizing your skin has decided to become bubble wrap.

The bright side? I found some great clearance summer clothes. You really have to appreciate Walmart sometimes. One minute you're picking up something practical, and the next you're standing there holding three shirts, a dress, and something you didn't know existed fifteen minutes earlier because it was marked down so much it practically begged to come home with you.

Of course, having Multiple Sclerosis and dealing with this heat is like trying to run a marathon while wearing a winter coat and carrying a refrigerator on your back. This summer is absolutely doing a number on my body. Today I am completely worn out. My energy level feels like a phone battery that's been stuck at 3% all day. You know it's bad when even your coffee looks at you and says, "I'm not sure I can fix this."

Still, despite being exhausted, yesterday was genuinely fun. Nikki, Jim, and I went out to eat, laughed a lot, got our errands done, and made some memories. Sometimes those are the days you remember most—the ones that leave you smiling and completely drained at the same time.

Today, unfortunately, there is no magical "chronic illness vacation" button. The magazines still need work. The cleaning still needs to get done. The responsibilities are all standing around tapping their watches and pretending not to notice that I would very much like to spend the day napping in a dark, air-conditioned cave.

One of the hardest parts about living with a chronic illness is that your body occasionally files a formal complaint while life continues to send you invoices. Rest is necessary, but obligations don't always get the memo.

So today I'll be moving a little slower, drinking a little more water, and tackling my to-do list one task at a time. It may not be graceful, but it will get done...maybe.

And if the sun could kindly stop trying to turn me into a roast, that would be appreciated.

Dad Joke of the Day:

I bought a fan because I was hot.

Turns out it was a huge supporter and now it follows me everywhere. 

July 3, 2026

Chronic Illness: The World's Slowest Roller Coaster

Today has been one of those days where my body seems to be operating on dial-up internet while the rest of the world upgraded to fiber optic years ago.

You know the kind of fatigue I'm talking about. Not the cute little "I need a nap" fatigue. Not the "I stayed up too late watching true crime documentaries and now regret every life choice" fatigue. No. This is the deluxe package. The premium subscription. The kind of exhaustion where putting on socks feels like an Olympic event and making a sandwich deserves a participation trophy.

The weird thing about chronic illness is how life somehow moves at two completely different speeds at the same time.

The days drag.

The weeks disappear.

One minute it's breakfast, the next minute it's somehow dinner, and yet between those two meals it feels like I've lived through three presidential terms and an ice age.

I spend so much time trying to gather enough energy to do basic things that by the time I actually do them, I've forgotten why I got up in the first place.

I went into a room earlier and sat there staring into space like a haunted Roomba.

I wasn't cleaning.

I wasn't planning.

I wasn't thinking.

I was buffering.

And then there's the emotional side of things.

Nobody really talks about how exhausting it is to carry confusion around with you all day.

Lately I've been thinking about someone I know I shouldn't be thinking about.

A narcissist.

The kind of person who can make you feel like the most important person in the world one moment and completely invisible the next.

The kind of person who leaves you questioning your own memories because somehow the bad moments and the good moments get tangled together like Christmas lights that have been stored in a box since 1997.

The logical side of me knows the relationship wasn't healthy.

The logical side of me has receipts.

The logical side of me has enough evidence to present a case before the Supreme Court.

But then there's the emotional side.

The emotional side remembers the conversations.

The jokes.

The nights spent laughing.

The moments when he wasn't the villain in the story.

The moments when he really did feel like my best friend.

And that's the hard part nobody prepares you for.

Sometimes you don't miss the person who hurt you.

You miss the person you thought they were.

You miss the friendship.

You miss the connection.

You miss the possibility.

And somehow your heart keeps trying to submit appeals after your brain has already closed the case.

It's frustrating.

It's confusing.

It's exhausting.

It's human.

Some days I feel completely lost.

Not dramatic movie lost where a wise old stranger appears with life-changing advice.

Just regular lost.

The kind where you're standing in the grocery store staring at a shelf wondering why you came down that aisle.

Except emotionally.

Still, somehow, I keep finding reasons to laugh.

Because what else am I going to do?

If life insists on being ridiculous, I might as well participate.

I may be tired.

I may be confused.

I may occasionally forget why I walked into a room.

I may still be trying to untangle feelings that should have packed their bags and left months ago.

But I'm still here.

Still breathing.

Still writing.

Still finding things to smile about.

Still managing to crack jokes even when my body and my emotions are acting like two toddlers fighting over the last juice box.

Maybe that's resilience.

Maybe it's stubbornness.

Honestly, at this point, I'm not sure there's much difference.

Either way, I'll take it.

Dad Joke of the Day:

My chronic illness and I have something in common—we're both exhausted, but somehow neither of us knows how to quit. 

July 6, 2026

Dear Blog,

Today's fun fact is that my day once again began the same way every great epic adventure starts: my roommate waking me up before my body had officially agreed to participate in society. Nothing says "good morning" quite like being gently reminded that sleeping is apparently a privilege and not a lifestyle.

First order of business was feeding some of the furry-and-feathered kingdom. Dogs? Fed. Cats? Fed. Macaws? Fed. Fresh water for everyone? Check. I swear I spend more time running a wildlife sanctuary than living in a house. If I ever disappear, just check under the mountain of bird seed.

After the morning zoo duties, I got to work on Miss Pin-up Magazine: The Military Issue, which absolutely has to be finished by tomorrow afternoon. Deadlines wait for no one, unfortunately. If caffeine could earn a Pulitzer Prize, we'd both be on the cover.

I also put away my laundry today. Now, before anyone starts applauding my domestic greatness, my roommate actually washes the laundry because I physically can't get to the laundry room in my wheelchair. We have a pretty fair arrangement: she does the laundry, and I handle the dishes and cleaning the stove. Teamwork makes the dream work...or at least keeps the kitchen from looking like it hosted a grease convention.

One disappointment today was that our trip to Lexington didn't happen. I had really been looking forward to getting out of the house for a while. Apparently it's been rescheduled for Thursday, and I'm crossing my fingers that this plan actually survives contact with reality.

Instead, Wednesday's exciting adventure will be driving to Dry Ridge to pick up...you guessed it...more birds.

Now, wasn't I promised I would never have to make that drive again?

Yes.

Was that promise apparently written in disappearing ink?

Also yes.

I absolutely despise driving to Dry Ridge. The roads are narrow, twisty, hilly, and seem specifically designed by someone who hated both guardrails and peace of mind. My roommate, on the other hand, drives like she's auditioning for an action movie directed by caffeine. Since I enjoy remaining among the living, I end up driving. I creep along those roads at approximately the speed of continental drift because I would rather arrive late than become tomorrow's traffic report. It takes twice as long, but at least I plan on arriving with my blood pressure only moderately elevated.

The truly ironic part?

We had finally managed to get our house chicken population down to around ten. Ten! We were making progress! Nature was healing!

So naturally we're about to add at least five more birds.

Because apparently when normal people collect decorative pillows, we collect poultry.

There is also a very real possibility that we'll be adding another peacock...or two.

I wish I were kidding.

My roommate absolutely adores birds. She lights up every time she sees another feathered creature that "needs a home."

Meanwhile, I am allergic to feathers.

This is not the life I carefully planned.

This is simply the life that looked at me, shrugged, and said, "Congratulations, you're now living inside an aviary."

My sinuses have filed several formal complaints.

By evening I had officially run out of energy. Chronic illness has a wonderful way of turning "Maybe I'll cook tonight" into "Absolutely not." So Taco Bell it is. Sometimes survival comes wrapped in a tortilla, and honestly, I'm not going to judge it.

Unfortunately, dinner is just the intermission.

Tonight will be another long night spent finishing the Military Issue of Miss Pin-up Magazine so it can go out tomorrow afternoon. Then tomorrow I get to enjoy the glamorous world of doctor appointments, blood tests, discussions about a liver biopsy, and all the other exciting activities that somehow never make it onto anyone's bucket list.

Life has been equal parts deadlines, doctor's appointments, feathers, allergies, laundry, dishes, and enough animals to qualify this house as a small petting zoo.

Still...tomorrow is another day.

Hopefully one with fewer birds.

(I'm not optimistic.)

July 13, 2026

Well, if anyone was wondering whether my life has decided to embrace the concept of "relaxation," the answer is an enthusiastic, sarcastic laugh followed by the universe throwing another plot twist at my forehead.

Yesterday was spent in the emergency room with my roommate. She wasn't feeling well, needed to be checked out, and understandably didn't want to go through it alone. So, naturally, I became chauffeur, waiting room entertainment, snack finder, emotional support human, and professional "it's going to be okay" specialist. Hospitals are fascinating places. You go in expecting a quick visit and somehow emerge three business days later wondering if you've accidentally paid rent there.

Thankfully, she's back home now, but she's still feeling pretty rough.

Which meant today wasn't exactly a vacation either.

Today's exciting episode of The Molly Show included putting the finishing touches on the newest issue of Miss Pin-Up's Open Theme Issue and getting it officially published. There is something incredibly satisfying about finally hitting that publish button after countless hours of editing, proofreading, second-guessing yourself, fixing one comma, breaking five other things, and wondering if caffeine can legally replace blood.

After that, I rewarded myself with a little online shopping. Was it necessary? Probably not. Did it make me happy? Absolutely. Sometimes retail therapy is cheaper than actual therapy...unless you accidentally discover a sale.

Then came Mount Dishmore.

I swear dishes reproduce when no one is looking. I'm convinced the forks hold tiny family reunions overnight. I spent what felt like an Olympic event washing dishes before moving on to taking care of all of the animals. Everyone got fed, everyone got attention, everyone seemed thrilled with life...except the human adults.

My roommate is still under the weather, so caregiver mode continued. More food, more checking in, more making sure she had what she needed, because that's simply what you do when someone you care about isn't feeling well.

Meanwhile, my own energy level has officially filed for early retirement.

I am absolutely exhausted.

And yet...

Here I am.

Still working.

Still checking things off my endless to-do list.

Still refusing to sit still for very long because apparently my brain thinks sleep is just an optional hobby.

The really exciting part?

In about ten days, my newest novel, Married to Diablo, officially makes its grand entrance into the book world. It'll be available through my online bookstore along with retailers including Barnes & Noble, Lulu, Books-A-Million, and Amazon. Watching another book finally leave my desk and find its way into readers' hands never gets old. Every manuscript starts as a messy collection of ideas, random notes, late-night inspiration, and enough coffee to keep an entire café in business. Somehow, eventually, it becomes an actual book.

That's still pretty magical.

Of course, because I apparently don't understand the concept of taking a break, I've already started writing Novel Number Five.

It doesn't have a title yet.

It doesn't need one yet.

Right now it's simply another adventure that's taking shape one chapter at a time. Like several of my other books, it'll blend about fifty percent real life with fifty percent fiction, sprinkled generously with sarcasm, a little wisdom, some life lessons, a few laughs, and just enough dramatic flair to keep things interesting. Basically...my usual style. If I can't make people laugh while making them think, am I even writing?

Tomorrow brings another restart.

My calorie counting has slipped a little lately. I don't think I've gained anything back, but I definitely feel like I've parked myself on one of those incredibly annoying weight-loss plateaus that refuses to move. I'd still like to lose another thirty to fifty pounds, so it's time to tighten things back up.

Back to what actually works for me.

Protein shakes.

Protein bars.

Chicken.

Rice.

Fruit.

Vegetables.

Water.

Zero-sugar pop.

Zero-sugar electrolyte drinks.

The occasional 100% juice.

Simple. Affordable. Easy to prepare. Gentle on my colitis. Less time cooking means more time writing, publishing, taking care of people, taking care of animals, and attempting to convince my cleaning pile that it doesn't actually own the house.

Life isn't always glamorous.

Sometimes it's emergency rooms, dirty dishes, sick roommates, exhausted muscles, publishing deadlines, and staring at a blinking cursor while wondering if your brain has quietly wandered off somewhere without permission.

But it's also books being born.

Dreams moving forward.

People helping people.

Animals with full bellies.

Hope.

And maybe, just maybe, tomorrow I'll remember that I can't pour from an empty coffee cup...although I'll probably try anyway.

July 18, 2026

Powered by Caffeine, Sarcasm, and a Tiny Bit More Energy Than usual!

Good afternoon, beautiful humans!

Well... would you look at that. It's only a little past noon, and I've somehow managed to accomplish more today than I did over the last two days combined. I know. I'm just as suspicious as you are.

I'm not saying I've suddenly become a productivity guru, but if I keep this pace up, I might actually cross a few things off my to-do list before the sun goes down. Someone check if Mercury has stopped doing cartwheels.

This morning started with the usual animal rounds. The cats have been fed. The dog has been fed. The kitchen chickens have been fed. (Yes, kitchen chickens. Around here we don't ask questions—we just accept the chaos and keep going.)

I've also gathered up some garbage, took care of bathing, squeezed in a little self-care, and even managed to look around the house without immediately wanting to crawl back into bed. Progress comes in strange little packages sometimes.

Meanwhile, my roommate is off at yet another bird show.

Let's all have a moment of silence for the available space in this house.

Because we all know what's about to happen...

She'll walk through that door later today saying, "Look what I found!"

And suddenly we'll have seventeen more feathered roommates with names like Sir Chirps-a-Lot and Princess Peepington.

At this point I don't even ask if we're getting new pets. I just ask what species showed up this time.

The new kittens are doing well, thankfully. We did lose a few after birth, which is always heartbreaking. Their mama was far too young and tiny herself, but she's proving to be a wonderfully devoted little mother. Watching her care for the babies who made it reminds me that even the smallest souls can have the biggest hearts. They're a sweet little family, and I'm rooting for every one of them.

As for me... anxiety has been hanging around like that one guest who ignores every hint that the party is over.

My living situation continues to be one of my biggest stressors. I desperately need an accessible place that's better suited to life in a wheelchair, but right now I don't have a realistic way to afford one or move into one.

So, the current plan appears to be...

Step 1: Exist.

Step 2: Continue existing.

Step 3: Repeat while making sarcastic comments.

Not exactly the dream strategy, but it's the one I've got.

Some days I miss walking so much it physically hurts. I find myself praying for working knees more often than I probably admit out loud.

And yes...

I want to move.

I really want to move.

In case the universe missed it the first two times...

Hey universe—I want to move!

Maybe if I repeat it enough it'll become the world's strangest manifestation exercise.

Despite everything, today feels a little lighter.

Energy may not solve every problem, but it sure makes the mountain look a little less impossible to climb.

Now if only allergy season would stop trying to assassinate my sinuses.

Seriously...

Whoever invented pollen owes me an apology.

I swear the trees get together every spring and say, "Let's see how dramatically we can inconvenience Molly this year."

On another important note...

I want a cheesecake.

Not a slice.

A relationship with a cheesecake.

We're emotionally compatible.

Today's random thoughts also include:

My to-do list keeps reproducing when I'm not looking.

Dishes are apparently a renewable natural resource.

I cleaned one area, turned around, and somehow another area became messy. I suspect the dust bunnies have organized.

Still, I'm choosing optimism today.

Not the unrealistic kind that pretends life is perfect.

The stubborn kind.

The kind that says, "Life is currently trying to body-slam me into next Tuesday, but I'm still showing up."

I'll keep writing.

I'll keep creating.

I'll keep advertising.

I'll keep cleaning what I can.

I'll keep hoping for better days.

And I'll keep believing that eventually all of this hard work will lead somewhere brighter.

If you're reading this and today feels heavy for you too, I hope you find one tiny victory to celebrate. Maybe it's getting out of bed. Maybe it's making yourself lunch. Maybe it's simply surviving another day.

Sometimes that's enough.

Thank you for spending a little part of your day with me.

I genuinely wish happiness, healing, and brighter tomorrows for every one of you.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a mountain of work waiting, a cheesecake calling my name from somewhere in the universe, allergies trying to ruin my afternoon, and approximately a 97% chance my roommate returns home with another feathered family member.

Have an amazing day.

Love ya!

— Molly Roxx

P.S. My roommate just got home from the bird show...

Remember earlier when I joked she'd probably come home with new birds?

Well...

I accidentally manifested it.

She came home with about 30 new birds.

Not thirty bird stickers.

Not thirty bird pictures.

Thirty actual birds.

And from what I understand, most of them are going to be living in the house.

At this point, I don't think I have a roommate anymore—I think I'm sharing my home with the world's tiniest wildlife sanctuary.

If you suddenly stop hearing from me, assume I've been adopted by a flock of judgmental little dinosaurs who chirp every time I try to write a sentence.

On the bright side, I guess I'll never need an alarm clock again.

On the less bright side... I'm pretty sure they're going to hold daily meetings to discuss my life choices and laugh at me.

Send cheesecake.

And maybe earplugs.

Love ya! 

7/22/2026

Dear Grim Reaper...Not Today, You Rice-Choking Bastard!

 Good morning, my lovely little readers. Well... I almost died. And if I had, the official cause of death it would've been... “Rice.” Not a shark. Not a bear. Not skydiving. Not even a clown, which honestly feels more likely. Nope. A fluffy little grain of rice looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Today's your day, sweetheart." One second I was eating some rice for breakfast like a civilized adult. The next, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't swallow. My chest felt like it had entered a cage match with Mike Tyson. Tears were pouring down my face, I was making sounds that probably qualify as whale language, and I could literally feel my brain scrolling through my greatest hits. Only it wasn't my greatest hits. It was more like... “Remember when you waved back at someone who wasn't waving at you?" "Remember that haircut in 1998?" "Remember every stupid thing you've ever said?"  Thanks, brain. Real helpful. So, there I am, convinced my obituary is going to read: ‘Molly Roxx’ "She survived a lot of things...until breakfast fought back." I basically had to Heimlich maneuver myself against my own arms and fists like some low-budget action movie stuntwoman. And then... I puked. Elegantly. Like a Disney princess. If Disney princesses violently vomited rice while questioning every life decision they'd ever made. But... I lived. Take that, breakfast! --- Now that I’ve survived **Attack of the Killer Rice**, let's move on to today's second episode of... **The Real Housewives of Poultry County**

Every single morning my roommate announces she's sick of all the chickens in the house. "I'm selling some." "I'm done." "Too many chickens." It's become our morning weather report. Then... Not even five minutes later... "I think I'm getting more." ... Excuse me? Is this a chicken addiction? Is there a twelve-step program for poultry collecting? At this point I don't know if we live in a house or the world's least sanitary petting zoo. Now don't misunderstand me. I love my roommate. She has been incredibly kind to me, and I am genuinely grateful she's opened her home while I'm going through all of this health mess. I honestly don't know where I'd be without her. And the chickens? They're actually adorable. Sweet little fluffy weirdos the chickens are. They follow people around. They cuddle. Some wear tiny diapers. Some are still too little to wear diapers, which means I'm constantly armed with Clorox wipes because I'm forever cleaning little chicken poop deposits off floors, furniture, or wherever the tiny feathered freeloaders decide to leave a "gift." I swear I've become a professional poop detective. "Hmm...fresh dropping at 2 o'clock. Judging by the trajectory, I suspect Geraldine." And here's the punchline... I'm allergic to feathers. Because apparently God has an incredible sense of humor. "Oh...you have Multiple Sclerosis?" "Here...live inside a chicken nursery." Comedy. Pure comedy! Here's what literally just happened while I was typing this. Roommate walks in. "I put ads up to sell some chickens." Me: "Oh good." Her: " I'm also looking at buying more."  I need someone to draw me a flowchart. Because I cannot understand this way of thinking. 

I know my blogs have sounded a little complain-y lately. Trust me... Nobody gets more tired of hearing my problems than I do. Life has simply become...different. Being unable to walk doesn't just change how you get from Point A to Point B. It changes your identity. Your confidence. Your independence. Your pride. I miss living alone. Not because I didn't appreciate company... But because if I wanted to eat cheesecake for breakfast while watching murder documentaries wearing one sock and nothing else…Nobody had the authority to question my choices. Now there are house rules. Chores. Schedules. I know they're reasonable. I'm grateful for them. But part of me still feels like a teenager asking permission to exist. It's a weird place to be. Grateful... Yet frustrated. Loved... Yet trapped. Those two feelings can absolutely exist together. What I really need is surgery. I need these legs to stop acting like they're running Windows 95. Buffering... Buffering... Error. Please restart human. I have things to do. Books to write. Businesses to run. Dreams to chase. And I would very much appreciate making it through those dreams instead of rolling over extension cords like they're medieval booby traps. --- Now for the sunshine. Because despite everything... There actually IS some. My website is almost ready to launch! I cannot wait for you all to see it. Magazine sales are up this month (thank you, you beautiful humans), and every order reminds me that people still believe in what I'm creating. And let's talk about karma for a second. Remember the company that illegally cloned my novels and made money selling MY work? Yeah... Apparently consequences finally located their address. I'm involved in a lawsuit, and while I can't say much yet, let's just say... The "Find Out" phase has officially begun. Funny how stealing someone's work doesn't seem like such a brilliant business plan once lawyers enter the chat.  So yes, life is weird. Sometimes MS wins the round. Sometimes rice attempts murder. Sometimes I sneeze because of chickens while cleaning up chicken poop. Sometimes parrots scream because...well...they're parrots. Sometimes kittens climb into my lap like tiny therapists who accept payment in treats. Life is loud. Life is messy. Life smells suspiciously like a barn some days. But life is still worth laughing about. Because honestly... If I don't laugh... I'm probably going to end up crying into a bucket of Clorox wipes. And those things are expensive.

I wheel past chickens, a dog, and fluff,

Some days are easy, some are rough.

MS may grumble, ache, and shout,

But it still hasn't snuffed me out.

A kitten purrs upon my knee,

A parrot says, "Hey! Feed me! Feed me!"

The chickens gossip, flap, and peep,

I'm pretty sure they never sleep.

Some days my body refuses to play,

Some days it simply calls it a day.

But friends still laugh,

and readers stay,

And somehow hope still finds a way.

So, if your life feels upside down,

Don't let today become a frown.

Find one small thing that's good and true...

A wagging tail. A silly bird. A friend. A book. A dream.

A laugh. Maybe even surviving breakfast.

Just find a reason to be happy being you.

Have a wonderful day, my friends. Love your people. Pet your animals. Support artists. Read books. Laugh at yourself whenever possible. Chew your rice like it owes you money. And if your life currently smells like chicken poop while you're plotting world domination from a wheelchair... Welcome. You have officially entered the Molly Roxx Cinematic Universe.  

 July 25, 2026

Somewhere out there, there is an MS commercial showing a smiling woman in a flowing cardigan gently watering flowers while soft piano music plays in the background. She's laughing with her friends, walking through a field of daisies, and the narrator is whispering things like, "Sometimes people with MS experience fatigue... brain fog... and occasional hugs." Excuse me? "Hugs?" Whoever named the MS hug has obviously never been introduced to the psychotic anaconda that apparently rents space around my rib cage. Let's stop calling it a hug. It's an MS boa constrictor. It's an MS industrial-strength trash compactor. It's an invisible WWE wrestler that body-slams your ribs while whispering, "Good luck taking a deep breath." There is nothing cute about it. Last night I woke up in agony. Not "I slept funny" agony. Not "I need a heating pad" agony. The kind of pain that completely hijacks your body. I couldn't lie down because every position hurt. I finally ended up sleeping sitting upright like some exhausted vampire avoiding a coffin. Very glamorous. At one point I thought, "Well... this has to be the weirdest hotel chair I've ever slept in." The hotel was my living room. The concierge was my cat judging me. The room service was absolutely nonexistent. People who have never experienced MS often hear words like *fatigue* and think, "Oh, you're just tired." No. "Tired" is staying up too late binge-watching a television series. MS fatigue is your body unplugging itself from the wall while your brain screams, "We still have things to do!" People hear "brain fog" and picture forgetting where they put their keys. Brain fog can feel like trying to think through wet concrete while someone is simultaneously squeezing your spine, stabbing random nerves, and replacing every muscle with overcooked spaghetti. Then there's the pain. The commercials barely mention it, if at all. It's as if they're afraid to say the word because it might ruin the cheerful music. Here's a thought... Maybe tell people the truth. Tell them that sometimes pain steals your sleep. Tell them that sometimes getting dressed feels like climbing Mount Everest. Tell them that there are days when your body feels like it filed for divorce from your brain without giving you any notice. Tell them that invisible illnesses are still illnesses. The hardest part isn't always the pain itself. Sometimes it's feeling like you're screaming underwater while people on the shore insist you're just splashing around. When doctors dismiss what you're telling them, it can make an already frightening experience feel even more isolating. You start wondering if anyone truly hears you, even though you're living in a body that's making it impossible to ignore. I joke because humor has always been one of the few things MS hasn't managed to steal from me. Sarcasm is cheaper than therapy. Laughter burns fewer calories than crying. And if I don't laugh occasionally, I'd probably spend the entire day arguing with my nervous system like it's a malfunctioning customer service representative. "Hello, yes... I'd like to return this spinal cord. It appears to be attacking the rest of the equipment." Unfortunately, there are no refunds. Despite everything, I keep hoping tomorrow will be a little kinder than today. I keep believing there has to be better treatments, better understanding, and doctors who listen a little more carefully when someone says, "This is what I'm living with." If you know someone with MS, please don't assume you understand it because of a thirty-second commercial. The reality doesn't come with soft piano music. It comes with sleepless nights, relentless pain, invisible battles, and people trying their absolute best to smile anyway. And if you happen to see me laughing tomorrow... Please know it doesn't mean I stopped hurting. It just means Molly Roxx is once again refusing to let this disease have the last punchline.  I'm sorry you're going through such an intensely painful stretch.

Let's talk about something a little happier. I have actually been making some really good progress on my next book. Apparently, my fingers still believe in me, even if the rest of my body has officially clocked out and filed a complaint with Human Resources. Writing has always been my happy place. It doesn't care if I'm hurting, exhausted, or moving at the speed of a tranquilized turtle. The stories are patient. They wait for me. Some days they even seem to write themselves, and honestly, that's about the only thing in my life that does. Because my house certainly isn't. Can we talk about cleaning for a minute? Who invented dust? And more importantly... Why? I swear I can spend three hours cleaning one room, proudly stand back ( as I can’t stand at all)  to admire my work, blink once, and suddenly there's another pile of laundry giving me attitude from the corner. I don't even remember wearing half these clothes.  Who is making this mess? My roommate and the animals and yes, I participate in it too. If there is a ghost living here, I'd appreciate it if they'd stop dirtying coffee cups and start cleaning litter boxes. Speaking of things I probably shouldn't admit on the internet... I think I might be falling in love with my ex all over again. Yeah... I know. Believe me, nobody is rolling their eyes harder than I am. The heart is a funny little thing. It has selective amnesia. It remembers the late-night conversations, the laughter, the comfort, and the feeling of belonging somewhere. It conveniently edits out all the chapters where you questioned your own sanity. Thanks, heart. You're doing a fantastic job. While we're confessing things... Can we discuss steak? Not elegant steak. Not "served with a delicate wine reduction and rosemary butter" steak. No. I want a big ol' steak absolutely smothered in barbecue sauce. Is that classy? Absolutely not. Neither am I. Shhh... Don't tell anybody. Let's keep my reputation as a sophisticated lady intact. Actually...never mind. Anybody who knows me already knows I'd choose barbecue sauce over caviar every single time. Now for the part I'm not thrilled about. I've started putting a little weight back on. Not a lot. Just enough that my jeans have started looking at me suspiciously. The truth is, I eat when I'm scared. I eat when I'm overwhelmed. I eat when I'm hurting. I eat when my body decides today would be a fabulous day to remind me that chronic illness is a full-time job with terrible benefits. Food doesn't fix anything. Unfortunately, it does a pretty convincing impression for about fifteen minutes. Then reality shows back up like, "Hello...remember me?" Rude. I'm working on it. I'm trying to remember that healing isn't found at the bottom of a bag of gummy candy, no matter how persuasive the gummy candy may be. The biggest thing I've realized lately is that my dreams have changed. I don't want fame. I don't want millions of dollars. I don't want a mansion. Honestly, I don't even want excitement anymore. I just want... Average. Imagine that. Most people pray for extraordinary lives. I'm over here praying to be wonderfully, gloriously average. Dear Lord... Please let me grow old in a little trailer somewhere peaceful. Let there be entirely too many cats. Let there be shelves overflowing with books I've read and books I've written. Let there be paint splatters on the table because I got distracted creating something. Let there be reruns of 'Golden Girls,' 'Roseanne,' 'Designing Women,' 'Boy Meets World' and every wonderfully cheesy '80s and '90s show imaginable playing in the background. Let there be veggie platters in the refrigerator because apparently that's become one of my favorite snacks. Let there be steak with barbecue sauce because life is too short to pretend I enjoy fancy sauces just to impress people I don't even know. Let there be laughter. Lots of laughter. Let there be quiet evenings where nothing exciting happens at all. Those are starting to sound like luxury vacations to me. And if I'm really allowed to be picky... I'd like Scott's arms wrapped around me while we sit on the couch watching old television shows we've already seen a hundred times. No drama. No chaos. No emergencies. Just peace. And an unreasonable number of cats, and a chihuahua. The only thing I'd ask of those furry little freeloaders is that they evolve just enough to scoop their own litter boxes. Honestly, I don't think I'm asking for much. Scientists have accomplished amazing things. Surely, we're only a few years away from self-cleaning cats. At least let me dream. People spend their whole lives chasing adventure. They're chasing fame. They're chasing fortune. They're chasing excitement. Meanwhile... I'm chasing peace. I'm chasing ordinary Tuesdays. I'm chasing mornings that don't begin with pain. I'm chasing afternoons where I have enough energy to write a few chapters, paint something amazing, eat a veggie tray without feeling guilty for sneaking a cookie afterward, and curl up with the people—and animals—I love. If that's a boring life... Then sign me up. Because after everything I've been through, boring sounds absolutely magical.  

Tuesday, July 28, 2026

Trapped, Hungry, Nostalgic, Covered in Cat Hair... and somehow still Laughing.  Have you ever felt like a prisoner inside your own body...and your own house? Because if so, congratulations! We have matching prison uniforms. Mine is accessorized with fake Crocs, cat hair, feathers, and approximately seventeen mystery stains that appeared out of nowhere because apparently my home has entered its "haunted by housekeeping" era. Let's start with the steroids. Can we all agree that steroids are basically tiny little goblins that crawl into your brain yelling, "YOU NEED AN ENTIRE LOAF OF GARLIC BREAD IMMEDIATELY OR YOU WILL PERISH!" I'm hungry. No, I'm ‘professionally’ hungry. I just ate. My stomach looked at me and said, "Cute appetizer. What's for lunch?" Excuse me? We just had lunch! I've worked so incredibly hard to lose over 150 pounds, and now these steroids have me sitting in front of the refrigerator like it's a dating app. "Well hello there, leftover pizza...we meet again." The refrigerator light probably sighs when it sees me coming. The really frustrating part is that I'm not being treated with the MS medications I need right now—just steroids—and while I'm grateful for anything that helps, the side effects can be brutal. Sometimes it feels like my body and I are in a constant negotiation, and my body keeps changing the terms without consulting me first. Speaking of negotiations... Can we talk about how ridiculous parts of the disability system can be? You're told to be responsible. Save your money. Plan ahead. But then you're reminded that if you're receiving certain benefits and your resources go over a certain limit, you can risk losing the very support you depend on. It's enough to make your eye twitch. It often feels like people who are already struggling are expected to perform financial gymnastics while balancing on a unicycle...during a tornado...while someone keeps moving the finish line. Many of us paid into the system because that's what working people do. When life changes unexpectedly, you'd hope the system would help you regain stability instead of making stability feel almost impossible. Some days it just doesn't seem fair. But here's what I can control. I can keep moving forward. I can keep looking. In just a few days, I'm going full force into finding a wheelchair-accessible home of my own. I miss independence. I miss having a place that feels peaceful. I miss the idea of having friends stop by just because. I miss hopping in a working car and deciding, "You know what? Ice cream sounds like a perfectly reasonable life decision." Instead, life currently feels like I'm starring in the world's least successful reality show. ‘Extreme Home Cleaning: Animal Edition.’ Every episode features me asking questions like: "Who knocked over the water bowl?" "Why is there straw in the sink?" "Is that cat litter...or glitter? Please let it be glitter." Cleaning with this many animals is like brushing your teeth while eating Oreos. You're technically accomplishing something... ...but the universe is working against you.

I started thinking today about recess. Remember jump ropes? Remember double dutch? Remember pumping your legs on the swings until you were convinced you were going to swing right over the top? Then you'd jump off and for one glorious second you weren't falling... ...you were flying. I miss that feeling. Those giant metal slides that could remove an entire layer of thigh skin during the summer? Apparently, our generation looked at third-degree burns and said, "Worth it." The playground equipment back then was basically a lawsuit waiting to happen. But somehow... I miss it. I miss dirt becoming castles. I miss sticks becoming magic wands. I miss imagination making an ordinary afternoon feel like the greatest adventure on Earth. My childhood wasn't perfect—not even close—but there were beautiful moments tucked inside it that still make me smile. Sometimes those memories remind me that wonder still exists. Sometimes we just have to dig a little harder to find it. Now... About the kittens. Only two of the six are still alive. One is curled up with me as I write this. She's fighting so hard. She's been treated for fleas, treated again, and she's battling a severe respiratory infection. She's so tiny and so tired. There are parts of this story I simply can't share right now. I'm not trying to be mysterious. I'm trying to be careful. There are things that need to stay quiet for now, and one day—when it's safe—I promise the whole story will come out. Trust me... It's a doozy. Until then, I'm going to keep loving these little babies with everything I've got. Life has felt heavy lately. Really heavy. But heavy doesn't mean hopeless. Sometimes it just means you've been carrying more than anyone realizes. So today... I'm asking for prayers. Prayers that I find a safe, wheelchair-accessible home where I can build a peaceful life. Prayers for my health. Prayers for my sweet little kitten who's still fighting. Prayers for every kitten, every cat, every shelter animal, every forgotten soul that just needs someone to care. And while you're at it... Say a little prayer for all of us out here just trying our best. The ones cleaning up one more mess. Filling one more food bowl. Fighting one more battle nobody sees. Trying to laugh even when life insists on auditioning for a disaster movie. Because here's the thing... If life is going to hand me lemons... I'm probably going to make lemonade. Then accidentally spill it because a cat sprinted across the counter chasing a moth. Then clean it up. Again. Always cleaning. Always loving. Always hoping. Have a beautiful week, my friends. Be kind to yourself. Call someone you love. Pet a cat if one allows you the honor. And if life feels especially heavy today, remember this: Even on the hardest days, there is still room for laughter. Sometimes it's the only thing that keeps us standing. Or, in my case... Rolling. Oh, and I got a pair of generic, camouflage Crocs...Yay for my feet!

 Friday, July 31, 2026

The Weekend Is Here... Apparently.

Happy Weekend!

Cue the confetti...or don't. Around here Monday, Tuesday, Saturday, and National Eat Ice Cream for Breakfast Day all pretty much wear the exact same outfit.

People everywhere are shouting, "Thank gawd it's Friday!"

Meanwhile, I'm over here asking, "Which one was Friday again?"

When you're self-employed, every day is technically a workday...and a day off...and dish day...and editing day...and cleaning day...and "I should really organize that one shelf" day.

The calendar says, "Weekend!"

My brain says, "Neat."

My to-do list says, "Absolutely not."

Now, before anyone gets the wrong idea, I don't feel like I live in a prison. It's just that transportation is a challenge. My own vehicle isn't running, and because I use a wheelchair, spontaneous adventures require a little more planning than simply grabbing my keys and heading out the door. My roommate is wonderful for helping when she can, but loading my wheelchair into her van is no small task, so most outings become carefully planned shopping trips.

Shopping is fine.

I like shopping.

But every now and then I'd like to do something wildly rebellious...

Like go see a movie.

Or find a wheelchair-accessible swimming pool.

Or wander through a bookstore for two hours pretending I don't already own enough books to open my own library.

Maybe even go somewhere that doesn't involve comparing prices on paper towels.

I'd just like to collect a few new memories that don't begin with, "Well, we stopped at Walmart..."

Living in a home that isn't fully accessible isn't just physically exhausting. It's mentally exhausting too. Every doorway, every little obstacle, every thing that most people never think about becomes another reminder that life could simply be...easier.

And why are accessible homes so incredibly difficult to find and afford?

Who designed this system?

Because I'd like to politely hand them a ruler, a wheelchair, and a strongly worded brochure.

Thankfully, tomorrow gives me something exciting to focus on.

Tomorrow my online bookstore officially opens!

I can't even begin to explain how excited I am. I'll be sending out press releases everywhere, getting a few fresh headshots taken, and officially launching Married to Diablo at the exact same time.

I'm nervous.

I'm excited.

I'm hopeful.

Mostly I'm trying not to refresh my website every twelve seconds wondering if the internet has magically discovered me yet.

I don't say this to brag—I truly don't—but I genuinely believe I'm a good writer. I pour my heart into every poem, every story, every article, every magazine, and every project I create. Sometimes I think all it would take is for a handful of readers to discover my work. If they enjoyed it enough to tell someone else, who told someone else, who told someone else...well, that's how dreams grow.

Every author starts with one reader.

Maybe tomorrow starts another chapter for me.

Health-wise, today has been pretty decent. I woke up with my usual collection of aches and pains—apparently my joints like to greet the sunrise before I do—but once the medications kicked in, things settled down quite a bit.

I still wish I had more energy.

I'd love to make a real meal instead of surviving on protein shakes and Uncrustables like I'm a very tired college student who somehow became middle-aged without noticing.

Still...

I'm surviving.

Sometimes surviving is enough.

Sometimes surviving quietly turns into thriving.

I'm also making phone calls and searching for a new accessible place to live. I refuse to give up hope, even if the process feels impossible. Somewhere out there is a place that will feel like home instead of another obstacle course.

Until then...

I'll keep writing.

I'll keep dreaming.

I'll keep laughing.

Because giving up has never really suited me.

Another thing I've realized lately is that I miss having a few really close friends who appreciate wonderfully terrible jokes.

I need people who answer sarcasm with even more sarcasm.

People who understand that making up ridiculous words during a conversation is a perfectly acceptable language.

People who appreciate puns so awful they become masterpieces.

My roommate always says she doesn't understand me. She'll blame it on being a Capricorn—her words, not mine—and honestly that always makes me laugh. Our personalities are just wildly different. That's okay. We don't all have to be alike.

But I do need some people around who laugh first, overthink later, and understand that sometimes humor is just another way of surviving difficult seasons.

Until then, I'll continue entertaining myself.

I've gotten pretty good at it.

I argue with autocorrect.

I negotiate with my coffee.

I hold meetings with absolutely no attendees.

Sometimes I lose those meetings.

Life is weird.

I have decided to simply lean into it.

I wish for sarcasm sweet and bright,

I wish for cats upon my floor,

I wish old love would bloom once more,

I wish mismatched clothes could all agree,

I'll make up words because I can,

I wish to wake without the pain,

I wish for joy to freely roam,

May lonely souls find faithful friends,

Here's hoping tomorrow isn't just another Saturday.

Here's hoping it's the first page of a brand-new chapter.

And if all else fails...

I'll celebrate my bookstore launch with an Uncrustable.

It may not be glamorous...

...but it is peanut butter-powered optimism.

And honestly?

That's not a bad way to start the next adventure.

August 4, 2026

The Girl Who Never Really Left the Dance Floor

I was seventeen years old when I discovered raves.

Not the watered-down versions you see in commercials or music videos. I'm talking about walking into a warehouse or club where the walls practically vibrated with pounding techno. The bass wasn't something you heard...it was something you felt. It shook your chest, rattled your bones, and somehow stitched together every broken piece of your soul for one perfect night.

Every weekend, for four or five years, my friends and I chased that feeling.

We danced until the wee hours of the morning. We laughed until our stomachs hurt. We met strangers who somehow felt like lifelong friends by sunrise. Nobody cared what you looked like. Nobody cared where you came from. Nobody cared if you had money, fancy clothes, or a perfect life.

You just danced.

The music was loud enough to drown out every worry you had carried all week.

It was love.

It was freedom.

It was magic.

It was body, mind, and soul becoming one with a beat that never seemed to end.

Those nights lit our spirits on fire!

For twelve glorious hours, once or twice a week, life made sense.

Then Monday would come.

Reality would return.

But for a little while...

We were free.

Fast forward a few decades.

Now I'm in my fifties.

Instead of dancing until sunrise, I spend far too much time sitting on a couch, feeling like my body has declared mutiny against me. It's a strange thing to remember being the girl who never stopped moving while living in a body that now fights me over every movement.

Today I spent hours making phone calls, trying to find help with housing.

Do you know what I learned?

If you're disabled but you're not homeless, many places simply tell you there's nothing they can do.

If you are homeless?

They'll often put you on a waiting list that can stretch on for years.

Years.

It's hard not to feel invisible.

Being disabled in America can feel like a punishment for something you never did.

People don't always understand how priceless simple things become once they're taken away.

A body that lets you walk.

A reliable vehicle.

Those aren't luxuries.

They're freedom.

With legs that work, you can go almost anywhere.

With a dependable vehicle, you can escape dangerous situations, reach doctors, buy groceries, visit friends, or simply know you have options.

Freedom isn't always measured in money.

Sometimes it's measured in mobility.

Sometimes it's measured in four working tires.

I've spent my entire life trying to climb out of one abusive situation after another, mostly by myself. That's a lonely road. I'm still praying. Still hoping. Still saving every dollar I can. Still believing that somehow life has another chapter waiting for me.

Some days that faith feels incredibly strong.

Other days...

Well...

Let's just say those days are harder.

But here's the funny thing about memories.

They never really leave you.

Every now and then, a techno song sneaks onto my playlist.

Without even thinking about it...

My foot starts tapping.

My arm starts pumping to the beat.

A smile slowly creeps across my face.

For just a moment...

I'm seventeen again.

The music is shaking the room.

My friends are laughing beside me.

The night feels endless.

The world feels possible.

That girl still lives inside me.

She may move a little slower these days.

She may have more scars.

She may need more miracles than she used to.

But she's still there.

And if life has taught me anything, it's that people who survive don't lose who they are.

They simply learn to dance differently.

So, if you ever see an older woman in a wheelchair grinning like an idiot because a techno song comes on...

That's probably me.

Still feeling the beat.

Still remembering the magic.

Still believing that one day, somehow, freedom and I are going to find each other again.

Because I'm that girl.

I always have been.

And no matter what life has thrown at me...

I always will be.

August 6, 2026

Dear Internet... You Really Dropped the Ball.

I'm starting to think the biggest mystery of the 21st century isn't whether aliens exist.

It's...

How have you people survived this long without reading my blog?

Seriously.

Where have you been?

I've been over here collecting enough stories to make Netflix nervous.

Let's get the obvious question out of the way.

Yes.

I'm 51.

No.

I don't know how that happened either.

Mentally, I'm somewhere between "Let's go on an adventure!" and "If someone schedules a meeting before 10 a.m., I'm filing a complaint with the United Nations."

I was born in New Jersey.

If that doesn't explain my personality, nothing will.

I've lived in so many states that filling out forms asking where I'm from feels like applying for witness protection.

Speaking of which...

No, I wasn't in witness protection.

Although that would explain a lot.

I've had enough jobs to make a career counselor throw their clipboard into traffic.

Business owner.

Writer.

Publisher.

Charity organizer.

Campaign starter.

Professional pain in the butt to anyone who thinks compassion is optional.

I started my first business when I was twelve.

Twelve!

Most kids were arguing over whose turn it was on the Big Wheel

I was figuring out payroll.

I've had every hair color imaginable.

If Crayola ever released "Questionable Tuesday Decisions," I'd have worn it.

I've climbed mountains.

Climbed waterfalls.

Traveled overseas.

Seen oceans.

Seen the Great Lakes.

Spent years convinced I was accidentally born as a human instead of a mermaid.

I'm still appealing that decision.

I've been married three times.

Let's just say I believe in giving people—and myself—another chance.

I've snuck out of second-story windows.

Climbed into third-story windows.

No, I'm not taking questions.

I survived.

That's the important part.

I've danced until sunrise.

Stayed out way too late.

Made spectacular decisions.

Made spectacularly bad decisions.

The good news?

The bad ones usually make better stories.

I've written children's books.

I've written novels.

I've published magazines.

I've written enough emails to qualify as a public utility.

If injustice had a customer service department, I'd be on hold asking to speak to the manager.

These days I'm in a wheelchair.

Life likes plot twists.

It turns out wheels don't slow down determination.

They just make parking more complicated.

People assume pain makes you smaller.

Sometimes it does.

Sometimes...

It makes your voice impossible to ignore.

Mine apparently came with a volume knob that's permanently stuck on "Jersey."

Every morning I read the news, and honestly?

Reality has become that one relative who shows up at Thanksgiving wearing pajamas, carrying fireworks, and insisting they have "a great business opportunity."

The headlines sound like rejected movie scripts.

Artificial intelligence is writing poetry.

People are arguing with their refrigerators.

Politicians are still discovering new and exciting ways to avoid answering simple questions.

The world is weird.

I love weird.

Weird built civilization.

Normal just alphabetizes the paperwork.

Here's what I've figured out after more than five decades of making people laugh, irritating the occasional professional blowhard, and collecting enough life experiences to fill several books...

Life isn't about pretending you've got it all together.

It's about laughing when it falls apart, fixing what you can, helping somebody else while you're at it, and refusing to let bitterness rent space in your head without paying utilities.

Do I get tired?

Every single day.

Do I hurt?

More than I'd like.

Do I still laugh until I snort?

Absolutely.

That's not a bug.

That's a feature.

I still believe people are mostly good.

I still believe kindness is the strongest rebellion.

I still believe imagination is criminally underrated.

And I still believe that somewhere out there is a little kid who dreams of becoming a pirate, a scientist, a teacher, a rock star, or a mermaid—and I hope nobody talks them out of dreaming too soon.

So, if this is your first visit...

Welcome.

Pull up a chair.

I've got stories.

Some are hilarious.

Some are heartbreaking.

Some will make you spit your coffee across the room.

Some might make you call your mom.

And somewhere in the middle of all the sarcasm, the snark, and the occasional snort-laugh...

You'll probably recognize a little bit of yourself.

Because this blog isn't really about me.

It's about surviving.

About reinventing yourself.

About refusing to let pain become your personality.

About standing up for people—even when you're sitting down.

And about finding reasons to laugh on days when laughter feels like the last thing in the world you should be doing.

So why haven't you heard of Molly Roxx before?

Honestly...

I was probably busy living another unbelievable story.

Now you're here.

And trust me...

We're just getting started.

Until next time—

Keep laughing.

Keep questioning.

Keep being gloriously, unapologetically yourself.

And if anyone knows why the chicken crossed the road...

Have it email me.

I've got a few follow-up questions.

August 8, 2026

Apparently, I Have a Very Exciting Life… If You Consider Napping an Extreme Sport

It’s time to blog, ladies and gentlemen!

And have I got something to tell you!

Absolutely nothing is going on in my life.

There. I said it.

Some bloggers have exciting adventures. They travel. They go places. They meet fascinating people. They have stories involving airplanes, fancy dinners, mysterious strangers and possibly international intrigue.

Me?

I woke up at 3:26 p.m.

I think that pretty much sums up my current level of excitement.

My life has apparently entered the “elderly house cat” portion of existence.

I have work to do. I actually DID get some work done earlier today, so technically I was being a productive member of society.

Then I fell asleep.

For approximately four hours.

And now...

I WANT TO DO IT AGAIN.

Apparently, my body has decided that productivity is overrated and that I should instead spend my afternoon horizontal, wrapped in a blanket, questioning every life choice that led me to having responsibilities.

Honestly, I support this decision.

I remember when I was a kid and my mother would tell me it was time for a nap.

I would probably argue.

I would probably complain.

I would probably act like she had just announced that I was being sentenced to 40 years in prison.

Oh, how I would love to go back and slap some sense into myself.

“GO TAKE THE DAMN NAP, CHILD!”

If I were that age now and someone said, “It's nap time,” I would be like:

“YES, MOMMY. THANK YOU. I HAVE BEEN WAITING MY ENTIRE ADULT LIFE FOR THIS MOMENT.”

Meanwhile, my roommate is watching Love Will Kill You documentaries.

As usual.

Because apparently murder is relaxing television around here.

Nothing says “peaceful afternoon” quite like sitting on the couch watching somebody slowly poison their spouse while casually eating a snack.

And right now, David is drugging his wife on television while Maggie is desperately trying to make the marriage work.

Maggie is telling David to stop.

Maggie believes David will change.

Maggie...

Maggie, honey.

I have watched enough of these documentaries to know how this story usually goes.

RUN.

But my roommate is completely enthralled.

And I am sitting here thinking about all the work I need to do.

Which I should probably be doing.

But inspiration has apparently left the building.

It packed a suitcase.

It waved goodbye.

It did not leave a forwarding address.

And as if the murder documentary weren't enough background noise, I am surrounded by macaws.

And the macaws are ARGUING.

I don't know what they are arguing about.

I don't speak Macaw.

Maybe somebody ate somebody else's cracker.

Maybe somebody looked at somebody funny.

Maybe someone borrowed a feather and didn't return it.

I have no idea.

But they are having a heated discussion.

Then, suddenly...

They start laughing.

So, apparently they solved the problem.

Or someone made a really good joke.

At this point I have accepted that I live inside a very strange sitcom.

The roosters are also singing in the side yard.

So, let's recap:

My roommate is watching people commit crimes.

The macaws are arguing and laughing.

The roosters are singing.

And I am lying around thinking about taking another nap.

Every creature in this house has a better social life than I do.

And frankly, I'm starting to resent them.

I think I am going to put in a Walmart order.

Because apparently if I am going to spend my afternoon accomplishing absolutely nothing, I should at least have snacks available.

I want some healthy-ish snacks.

Some premade meals.

Things I can eat without having to be in the kitchen and pretend I'm on an episode of MasterChef: People Who Really Don't Feel Like Cooking.

Maybe some veggie platters.

But here's where Walmart and I have a disagreement.

I always order the veggie platter with peppers.

PEPPERS.

Not tomatoes.

I don't want tomatoes.

I have never wanted tomatoes.

Tomatoes and I have a complicated relationship.

Actually, no.

It's not complicated.

I hate them.

And yet, somehow, every single time I order a veggie platter with peppers, I receive one containing tomatoes.

WHY?!

WHO IS DOING THIS?!

Is there a little tomato enthusiast sitting in the Walmart produce department going:

“Ah yes... Molly ordered peppers again. Quick! PUT TOMATOES IN IT.”

I loathe tomatoes almost as much as I loathe cherries.

Okay.

Not quite as much.

Because cherries are the grossest things on the planet.

Well...

Except for murdering cannibals.

Obviously.

So, cherries are somewhere just below murderous cannibals on my personal scale of things I would like to avoid.

You're welcome for that mental image.

Now...

My novel.

Novel number whatever-the-hell-number-I-am-on is almost finished.

And I still don't have a title.

This is becoming a problem.

I know the title will come to me.

It always does.

Eventually.

Usually at the most inconvenient possible moment.

I'll probably be in the shower someday, minding my own business, and suddenly:

THAT'S THE TITLE!

And then I'll have to sit there covered in conditioner yelling it out loud so I don't forget.

But it better be brilliant.

Because I need brilliance.

I have enough ordinary nonsense going on.

I need one thing in my life to be absolutely, ridiculously, gloriously brilliant.

Preferably the novel.

But I'll settle for a really good sandwich.

At this point, I'm flexible.

And speaking of things that make absolutely no sense...

WHY ARE CROCS SO EXPENSIVE?!

Seriously.

You can buy fake ones for about six bucks.

Then the name-brand ones stroll into the room wearing their little rubber shoes like they own Wall Street and announce:

“That'll be $85.”

Excuse me?

For foam shoes?

I have real Crocs.

I have fake Crocs.

And you know what?

They look the same.

They feel the same.

They last about the same amount of time.

I call my fake Crocs Frocs.

And I call my Walmart Crocs Wocs.

And yes, I am aware that I have apparently created an entire footwear classification system.

I am a writer.

I make things up.

It's what I do.

And apparently I make up names for cheap shoes.

Name-brand prices for certain things are absolutely insane.

Some people spend thousands of dollars on designer jeans.

THOUSANDS.

For jeans.

I recently bought a fantastic pair of jeans from Temu for $22.

And honestly, $22 is a little pricey for me.

It's practically a luxury purchase in my world.

But they are fabulous.

They look good.

They fit good.

And nobody has ever looked at my pants and said:

“Oh my God, are those $22?”

Because nobody cares.

And that is my point.

I don't understand the obsession with designer brands.

If you want to spend thousands on jeans, that's your business.

I'm just over here in my $22 pants thinking:

“Look at me. I'm fabulous and I still have money left for snacks.”

WINNING.

Now, on a slightly more serious note...

The fluid tumor on my leg from my lymphedema seems to be a little smaller today.

And I am VERY happy about that.

It is still ugly.

It is still painful.

But if one thing decides to be slightly less horrible today, I am going to celebrate the hell out of it.

I am still in the same amount of pain overall, which is pretty much expected.

But when you're dealing with a body that occasionally seems to wake up and say,

“Let's see how many ridiculous things we can throw at her today,”

you learn to appreciate the little victories.

So today, I am taking the win.

Slightly smaller ugly painful thing on my leg?

I'll take it.

Thank you very much.

Now I just need to move.

Which brings me to my next question:

WHO WANTS TO REPLACE MY KNEES?

I have insurance.

I am a very reasonable customer.

I will even bring snacks.

Anyone?

No?

Okay.

How about a car?

ANYONE WANT TO DONATE A CAR?

I need one badly.

I feel like I should be able to put this on some kind of magical adult wish list.

“Dear Universe,

Please send replacement knees, one reliable vehicle, a brilliant title for my novel, a vegetable tray containing peppers but NO TOMATOES, and approximately 47 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

A woman who is tired.”

There.

That's my wish list.

I don't think I'm asking for too much.

And if you happen to have a car you're trying to get rid of, you can always find the contact form on my website.

I'm just saying.

I'm open to miracles.

And so, that is my incredibly exciting life update.

I woke up at 3:26 p.m.

I napped for four hours.

I want to nap again.

My roommate is watching murder documentaries.

The macaws are arguing and laughing.

The roosters are singing.

I need groceries.

Walmart keeps betraying me with tomatoes.

My novel is almost finished and remains stubbornly untitled.

My Frocs are fabulous.

My Wocs are fabulous.

My $22 jeans are fabulous.

My leg is slightly less horrible today.

My knees are still being assholes.

And I still have work to do.

But you know what?

Life doesn't always have to be exciting.

Sometimes it's just weird.

Sometimes it's messy.

Sometimes it's painful.

Sometimes it's boring.

Sometimes it's four-hour naps and murder documentaries and birds yelling at each other while you sit there wondering what the hell you're doing with your life.

And sometimes...

That's okay.

Maybe we don't have to conquer the world every single day.

Maybe some days we're allowed to wake up at 3:26 p.m., eat something, laugh at the ridiculousness of everything, appreciate one tiny improvement, put on our Frocs, and call it a successful day.

Although...

I still have work to do.

Damn it.

Fine.

I'll try.

After I consider another nap.

Priorities, people.

Have a wonderful day, ladies and gentlemen.

I hope something makes you laugh today.

I hope something unexpectedly good happens.

I hope your vegetables arrive without tomatoes.

And  you're tired...

TAKE THE DAMN NAP.

I officially give you permission.

Lots of love, laughter, sarcasm, questionable decisions, and wishes for the very best.

 xoxoxx,

Molly Roxx

August 11, 2026

WOMEN, HEAR US ROAR — AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP TEARING EACH OTHER DOWN

WHY IS IT SO HARD FOR SOME WOMEN TO REALIZE THEIR WORTH?

WOMEN HAVE ALWAYS BEEN CHANGING THE WORLD

AND THIS IS WHY HISTORY MATTERS

WOMEN ARE 51% OF THE POPULATION.

STOP MAKING LAWS ABOUT WOMEN'S BODIES.

WOMEN, WE ARE NOT GOING ANYWHERE.

Apparently, when a man gains weight, he gets a dad bod.

When a woman gains weight, suddenly everyone becomes a medical professional, fashion critic, relationship expert, nutritionist and unpaid asshole.

A man gets older and we're told he is distinguished, experienced, rugged and sexy.

A woman gets older and apparently we're supposed to start looking for the nearest crypt.

Seriously?

Somewhere along the way, society decided that men are allowed to age, gain weight, have gray hair, develop wrinkles, become imperfect and still be considered attractive, valuable and desirable human beings.

Women?

Oh no.

Apparently we are supposed to remain eternally 27, wrinkle-free, thin, perfectly groomed, sexually appealing, emotionally pleasant, domestically useful and somehow available to everyone while accomplishing everything else in our lives.

And heaven forbid we gain a few pounds.

Suddenly we're "unhealthy."

Meanwhile, some guy with a beer belly is sitting in a lawn chair eating nachos while somebody calls him "Big Daddy."

Make it make sense.

The world has a misogyny problem.

And one of the most frustrating parts of it is that sometimes women participate in it too.

Women judge women.

Women compete with women.

Women tear down other women because they have been taught that another woman's success somehow takes something away from them.

It doesn't.

Her beauty doesn't take away yours.

Her intelligence doesn't make you less intelligent.

Her success doesn't make you less successful.

Her body doesn't make your body wrong.

Her age doesn't make you younger or older.

Her confidence doesn't steal yours.

And her accomplishments don't diminish yours.

There is room for all of us.

What we need is less women against women and a whole lot more WOMEN FOR WOMEN.

We need genuine sisterhood.

Not the fake kind where we smile at each other and then destroy each other in the bathroom afterward.

I'm talking about the kind where women actually stand up for one another.

Where we say:

"You can do this."

"You deserve better."

"I'm proud of you."

"Don't let them convince you that you're worthless."

"Your age doesn't determine your value."

"Your weight doesn't determine your worth."

"Your marital status doesn't determine your worth."

"Having children doesn't determine your worth."

"Not having children doesn't determine your worth."

And perhaps most importantly:

"You don't have to apologize for existing."

Why?

Why have generations of women been taught to measure themselves against impossible standards?

Why are girls still growing up believing that being pretty is more important than being smart?

Why are women still expected to be caregivers, cooks, cleaners, mothers, sexual partners, emotional support systems, employees and everything else while simultaneously being told that asking for recognition is somehow selfish?

And why is it so difficult for some men to understand the worth of women?

Where exactly do they think they came from?

Yes, yes, I know the biblical story.

Adam supposedly came first and Eve came from his rib.

Fine.

But let's examine that story for a second.

Even if you believe the story literally, there was one Adam and one rib.

You are not Adam.

And that rib was not yours.

So perhaps it's time to grow up, learn some respect and understand that women are not inferior beings created to serve men.

Women are human beings.

Period.

We are not maids.

We are not cooks.

We are not incubators.

We are not decorations.

We are not property.

We are not accessories to somebody else's life.

We are leaders.

Scientists.

Inventors.

Artists.

Engineers.

Doctors.

Teachers.

Astronauts.

Activists.

Writers.

Mothers.

Daughters.

Sisters.

Business owners.

Politicians.

Humanitarians.

Researchers.

Explorers.

And sometimes we're all of those things before breakfast.

Here's the part that really makes me crazy.

Women have been responsible for discoveries, inventions, scientific breakthroughs and world-changing accomplishments for centuries.

And far too often, they had to fight like hell simply to receive credit for what they did.

So, let's name some names.

Marie Curie helped establish the science of radioactivity and discovered the elements polonium and radium with Pierre Curie. She became the first woman to win a Nobel Prize and remains the only person to receive Nobel Prizes in two different scientific fields.

Rosalind Franklin produced crucial X-ray diffraction work that helped reveal the structure of DNA. Her Photo 51 became an important piece of evidence in understanding DNA's helical structure.

Lise Meitner made major contributions to the understanding of nuclear fission. Her work with Otto Hahn and Otto Frisch helped explain what happened when an atomic nucleus split.

Barbara McClintock discovered genetic transposition — the ability of genes to move within and between chromosomes. Her work fundamentally changed our understanding of genetics.

Dorothy Hodgkin used X-ray crystallography to determine the structures of important biological molecules, including penicillin, vitamin B12 and insulin. She received the Nobel Prize in Chemistry in 1964.

Katherine Johnson calculated flight trajectories that were critical to America's early human spaceflight program, including Alan Shepard's 1961 mission and John Glenn's 1962 orbital flight. Her calculations also contributed to Apollo missions and later space programs. NASA itself describes her contributions as critical to the nation's human-spaceflight program.

And Katherine wasn't alone.

Dorothy Vaughan, Mary Jackson and Christine Darden were also essential figures in NASA's history. NASA recognizes these women as instrumental to the success of early American spaceflight.

Stephanie Kwolek discovered the polymer chemistry that led to Kevlar, the extraordinarily strong fiber used in protective equipment, aerospace applications and countless other products. The American Chemical Society credits her discovery with creating the foundation for Kevlar and recognizes her as a pioneering woman in chemistry.

Mary Anderson invented the early practical windshield wiper. In 1903 she received a U.S. patent for a windshield-cleaning device operated from inside a vehicle. Today, windshield wipers are so ordinary that we barely think about them — because someone already did the thinking for us.

Josephine Garis Cochran invented the first practical dishwasher and patented her design in the 1880s. She didn't merely have an idea; she manufactured and marketed the invention herself. The National Inventors Hall of Fame recognizes her achievement.

Grace Hopper became a pioneer in computer programming and helped develop some of the earliest compiler technology, work that contributed to making programming languages more accessible.

Hedy Lamarr, famous to the public primarily as a Hollywood actress, also co-developed a frequency-hopping communication concept with composer George Antheil during World War II. Her work later became part of the technological lineage associated with spread-spectrum communications.

Ada Lovelace wrote what is widely regarded as the first published algorithm intended for processing by a machine, making her an important figure in the early history of computing.

Patricia Bath invented the Laserphaco Probe and pioneered laser technology for cataract surgery. She became the first African American woman physician to receive a medical patent.

Margaret Knight developed a machine that automated the production of flat-bottomed paper bags, dramatically improving their manufacture. And yes, she had to fight a man who claimed he had invented her idea.

Imagine having to prove that your invention was yours because apparently possessing a brain wasn't sufficient evidence.

This isn't just about giving women a gold star.

It is about accuracy.

If women helped build the world, women belong in the history of the world.

The United States Patent and Trademark Office has documented the long-standing gender gap in patenting. In its 2020 update, the USPTO reported that women represented 17.3% of new inventor-patentees in 2019, while patents with at least one woman inventor had risen to 21.9%. The numbers have improved, but the gap demonstrates how much talent has historically been left underrepresented in the patent system.

And history isn't just a collection of dead people and dusty dates.

History tells young people:

"People like you have done extraordinary things."

A little girl needs to know that women didn't just give birth to famous men.

Women were the famous scientists.

Women were the inventors.

Women were the mathematicians.

Women were the astronauts' calculations.

Women were the doctors.

Women were the researchers.

Women were the leaders.

Women were the people solving problems while somebody else was getting the credit.

So, when we teach history, let's tell the whole damn story.

There is currently a very real political controversy in the United States over how federal institutions, including the Smithsonian, present American history. The Trump administration has sought changes to Smithsonian historical presentations and has criticized what it considers ideological or politically biased interpretations of American history. Critics argue that such efforts can result in important parts of American history being minimized or removed from public presentation.

Whatever your political party, history should not be edited to make anybody feel comfortable.

History is supposed to tell us what happened.

The good.

The bad.

The ugly.

The embarrassing.

The inspiring.

The complicated.

And yes — the women.

Because removing women from history doesn't make women disappear.

It simply makes the history incomplete.

Think about that.

More than half of humanity cannot reasonably be treated as a footnote.

And men — listen up for a minute.

You are allowed to stand up for women.

You don't have to have a daughter.

You don't need a wife.

You don't need a mother.

You don't need a sister.

You don't even need a woman in your life to personally benefit from equality.

You can support women simply because equality is the right thing to support.

Standing up for women doesn't make you weak.

It doesn't make you less masculine.

It doesn't make you "whipped."

It makes you someone willing to stand up for what is right.

And women?

We need to stop waiting for somebody else to save us.

We need to stop competing with each other for scraps of approval.

We need to stop teaching girls that another woman's success is a threat.

We need to stop judging women by their bodies while ignoring their brains.

We need to stop pretending aging is something women should apologize for.

We need to stop treating motherhood as the only achievement worthy of celebrating.

And we need to stop allowing women's accomplishments to become historical footnotes.

Start enforcing the laws that already exist against people who violate women's bodies.

Protect women from violence.

Take sexual assault seriously.

Take domestic violence seriously.

Take stalking seriously.

Take harassment seriously.

Take abuse seriously.

And when someone violates another person's body, actually hold them accountable.

Women's bodies are not political playgrounds.

They are ours.

Our bodies.

Our choices.

Our lives.

And while we're at it, let's celebrate women for what they actually accomplish.

Don't only celebrate the woman who raised the man who invented something.

Celebrate the woman who invented something.

Don't only call a woman "the mother of a great scientist."

Call her a scientist when she is one.

Don't only tell girls about the famous men who changed history.

Tell them about the women standing right beside those pages — and sometimes creating the damn pages themselves.

Because little girls deserve role models.

Women deserve recognition.

Men deserve the opportunity to be allies.

And society deserves better than this ridiculous game where half the population is expected to make itself smaller so the other half can feel bigger.

We are aging.

We are gaining weight.

We are losing weight.

We are getting wrinkles.

We are getting gray hair.

We are having children.

We are not having children.

We are getting married.

We are getting divorced.

We are becoming CEOs.

We are becoming scientists.

We are becoming artists.

We are becoming politicians.

We are becoming teachers.

We are becoming astronauts.

We are becoming entrepreneurs.

We are becoming whatever the hell we want to become.

And we're doing it in whatever body we happen to have today.

So, stop telling women they have to earn their worth.

We were born with it.

Stop telling women they are too old.

We're experienced.

Stop telling women they are too fat.

We're human.

Stop telling women they are too loud.

Maybe you should listen.

Stop telling women they belong behind somebody else.

Move over. We're coming through.

And women, for the love of everything pink, glittery, stubborn and magnificent:

STOP TEARING EACH OTHER DOWN.

Lift each other up.

Share the opportunity.

Give credit.

Tell another woman she's beautiful.

Tell another woman she's brilliant.

Tell another woman she's doing a good job.

Defend her when she's not in the room.

Celebrate her success without making it about yourself.

Teach your daughters their worth.

Teach your sons to respect women.

Teach your children that equality isn't a threat.

It is the damn point.

Because we don't need women against women.

We need women for women.

We need men for women.

We need people for people.

We need true sisterhood.

We need equality.

We need respect.

We need history told honestly.

And we need women to stop asking permission to roar.

Women, hear us roar.

See us lead.

See us invent.

See us discover.

See us create.

See us age.

See us live.

And for once, instead of asking whether we're attractive enough, skinny enough, young enough, quiet enough or pleasant enough...

Ask what the hell we are going to accomplish next.

Because we're not done.

Not even close.

Just a Few of the Women Who Changed the World — Reference Guide

Katherine Johnson and NASA's women mathematicians: NASA documents Johnson's trajectory calculations and the contributions of Dorothy Vaughan, Mary Jackson and Christine Darden.

Mary Anderson — windshield wiper: National Inventors Hall of Fame documents her 1903 patent and invention.

Josephine Garis Cochran — practical dishwasher: National Inventors Hall of Fame documents her invention and U.S. Patent No. 355,139.

Stephanie Kwolek — Kevlar: American Chemical Society documents her discovery of the chemistry that led to Kevlar.

Women inventors and patents: The United States Patent and Trademark Office's Progress and Potential reports provide statistical documentation of women's participation in the U.S. patent system.

National Inventors Hall of Fame: Its official inductee database provides additional documentation of women inventors and their patented inventions.

NASA Women at NASA: NASA's women-in-NASA resources provide biographies and historical material on women who contributed to American space exploration.

For publication, these are strong starting references from authoritative organizations.

August 13, 2026

Well, hello there!

Yes, I am blogging again today... or shall I say tonight, because it is currently 11:30 p.m. and apparently my brain has decided that THIS is the perfect time to become productive.

I was just sitting here reading some of my previous blogs, and I realized something...

Damn, Molly. You sound depressing!

Okay, okay... before anyone worries, I know there is a reason for it.

Yes, some of my blogs have been sad. Some have been frustrating. Some have probably made you think, "Girl, are you okay over there?" And honestly, sometimes I'm not.

But that's exactly why I write them.

I don't want anyone reading my blog to think they are the only person in the world struggling with something.

You aren't.

You are not alone.

Somewhere out there, somebody else is feeling exactly what you're feeling.

And sometimes knowing that can make a little difference.

Now, I am definitely NOT claiming to have all the answers. I don't have a magical wand hidden somewhere that I can wave around and make everybody's problems disappear.

Trust me, if I did, I'd be waving that thing like a maniac. 😂

But I do have ears.

I have eyes.

And I have hands that can type.

So, if you ever need somebody to listen, you can write to me through my website on my Say Hello page.

I may not have a solution.

I may not know exactly what you're going through.

But I can listen.

I can type back.

I can be a friend.

And let's face it...

We can ALWAYS use another friend.

Sometimes you don't need somebody to fix everything.

Sometimes you just need somebody to say:

"Yep. That sucks. I hear you."

And maybe laugh about something stupid five minutes later.

Because life isn't always sunshine, rainbows, puppies and perfectly inspirational quotes.

Sometimes life is messy. And I will be sarcastic and I will be a pain in the ass, but I will be there for you.

Sometimes it hurts.

Sometimes it makes absolutely no sense.

And sometimes the best thing you can do is look at all the ridiculousness happening around you and say...

"Well... screw it. I'm still here."

And that counts for something.

So tonight, I'm leaving you with a little reminder:

You are here.

You are important.

You are not the only one struggling.

You are not the only one trying to figure things out.

And you don't have to have everything together all the time.

Make a new friend.

Send somebody a message.

Laugh at something completely stupid.

Tell the bad stuff in the world to go take a very long walk off a very short pier.

And remember...

We're all a little weird. We're all a little broken. We're all figuring things out. And we're all pretty damn awesome anyway. 💗

So sweet dreams, everybody.

If you feel like dropping me a note, please do! I'd love to hear from you.

Until next time...

Keep laughing. Keep fighting. Keep being YOU.

Making Friends & Flipping Off the Bad Stuff.

When life gets weird and things go wrong,

And you feel like you don't belong,

Just find a friend and grab some cheer,

And tell those gloomy thoughts, "Not here!"

We'll laugh at life, we'll muddle through,

We'll make new friends — me and you!

Some days are great, some days are crap,

Some days require a giant nap.

So if the world throws you some stuff,

Just smile and say, "I've had enough!"

We'll stomp our feet and shout, "Screw you!"

Then find something fun for us to do!

You're awesome, friend, and so am I,

We'll keep on going, we'll still try.

Through every mess and every fall,

We've got each other — that's all!

So bad stuff, kindly take a hike,

We're choosing happy — because we like!

Now grab a smile, come join the crew...

The world is weird, but so are we —

and that's pretty damn awesome too! 

August 15, 2026

Lord Help Me, She’s Gone to Another Chicken Show!

Lord help me. She did it again.

She just left for another chicken show.

Yes. Another one.

Now, let me take you back to the last chicken show because apparently we have collectively forgotten the trauma.

The last time she went to one of these things, she came home with approximately 30 chickens covered in lice.

THIRTY.

CHICKENS.

WITH LICE.

She did however immediately clean them up and take care of the lice problem.

And after that delightful little adventure, she swore—SWORE—that she would never go to another chicken show again.

Apparently, chicken-show amnesia is a real thing.

Because today?

She’s gone.

To another chicken show.

And naturally, she had to wake me up at 9:00 a.m. to tell me.

Ma'am.

I was awake until 4:00 in the morning writing.

I was finally sleeping.

I was sleeping so beautifully.

I was somewhere between REM sleep and becoming one with my pillow when suddenly—

WAKE UP. I'M GOING TO THE CHICKEN SHOW.

WHY?!

Just leave me a note!

“Hey, I'm leaving. See you later.”

I can read.

I can operate a door.

I can feed myself.

I am a grown-ass woman!

I can be alone in the house!

I promise I will survive your absence.

I am not going to immediately throw a wild party, sell the house, join a motorcycle gang, or accidentally burn it down while trying to make toast.

Although, honestly, after being awakened at 9 a.m., I may consider the motorcycle gang.

So now I get to have another day of no sleep and too many birds.

The silver lining?

I have some time to myself.

And THAT, my friends, is a beautiful thing.

I am currently watching a reality show about modern-day Romani people in America and their lifestyles, particularly their marriages and families.

And before anybody gets their feathers ruffled—no pun intended, although I am surrounded by chickens, so apparently feathers are just part of my life now—I am not making fun of anybody.

I find different cultures, traditions, family structures, and lifestyles fascinating.

Some of the things on this show are completely unfamiliar to me.

People marrying very young.

Some people marrying at 16.

First-cousin marriages.

One guy is marrying a woman who apparently used to babysit him.

And I'm sitting here watching this like:

“Well, this is certainly different from my Tuesday.”

I'm genuinely curious about it because I grew up with a completely different set of experiences.

I got married young the first time too, so I certainly can't sit here on my high horse pretending I had everything figured out at that age.

Because let's be honest:

When you're young, you think you're smart.

You think you know everything.

You think you've got life completely figured out.

Then you get older and realize:

Oh.

I knew absolutely nothing.

Of course, not every young person is dumb. Some are incredibly mature and responsible.

But there's something about being young that makes you look at a gigantic life decision and think:

“Yeah, this seems like a fantastic idea. What could possibly go wrong?”

And then ten years later you're sitting there thinking:

“Apparently… EVERYTHING.”

I have no idea what the divorce rate is specifically within the culture featured on the show, and I'm not going to pretend I do. I just find the whole thing interesting because it's so different from what I'm accustomed to.

America's overall divorce statistics are complicated too, and the famous “50% of marriages end in divorce” number gets thrown around constantly even though the actual picture is much more complicated than that.

But watching people make lifelong commitments at such young ages definitely makes me wonder how those marriages evolve as people grow up.

Because people change.

A LOT.

The person you are at 16 isn't necessarily the person you are at 26.

And the person you are at 26 might look at your 16-year-old self and say:

“Girl… WHAT were we thinking?”

Meanwhile, back at the Chicken Ranch…

I am surrounded by feathers.

And poop.

And chores.

And chickens that aren't even mine.

This is the part that really gets me.

I am SO SICK OF CLEANING UP AFTER CHICKENS!

I believe chickens should live outside.

Outside.

Where chickens belong.

In their natural chicken environment.

Doing chicken things.

Being chickens.

Some of these chickens DO live outside, which is wonderful.

But a lot of them live in the house.

THE HOUSE.

And somehow their house-cleaning responsibilities have mysteriously become my house-cleaning responsibilities.

How did this happen?!

I don't remember signing a contract.

I don't remember attending a chicken orientation.

Nobody handed me a clipboard and said:

“Congratulations! You've been selected as the unpaid Director of Domestic Poultry Sanitation.”

And yet…

Here I am.

Why are they my responsibility when they're not even mine?

Oh yeah.

Because apparently if I don't take care of them, I will get yelled at.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

It's too early for this.

I need coffee.

Actually, I don't just need coffee.

I need a fancy frozen coffee drink.

The kind that comes in a giant cup with whipped cream and some ridiculous drizzle on top.

I want something unnecessarily complicated.

Something that requires a barista to say:

“Wow. That's a lot.”

And I want to say:

“Yes. It's been a morning.”

Unfortunately, I have no way to get anywhere that sells one.

And I live in a tiny town where there isn't even a real coffee shop.

And no offense to McDonald's, but I don't want McCafe crap today.

I want a GOOD coffee shop.

The kind where the coffee has a personality.

The kind where you can sit there with your drink and feel like you've temporarily escaped your responsibilities.

The kind where nobody brings you a chicken.

Because that is apparently my new requirement for establishments:

NO CHICKENS.

So today should probably be a cleaning day.

But do I want to clean?

Absolutely not.

Do I have magazine work to do?

Absolutely.

Therefore, I have made an executive decision:

Magazine work wins.

I have too much to do, and I would rather spend my precious awake hours creating something than picking chicken poop out of places chicken poop should never have been.

Priorities.

This is adulthood, apparently.

You spend your nights writing until 4 a.m., get awakened at 9 a.m. by someone announcing their chicken-show departure, stare at a television show trying to understand unfamiliar cultural traditions, fantasize about an iced coffee you can't obtain, and then decide your best course of action is to work on a magazine while ignoring the chickens.

Honestly?

That sounds about right.

And you know what?

I'm going to enjoy it.

I'm going to write.

I'm going to work on my magazines.

I'm going to watch my bizarrely fascinating television show.

And I'm going to pretend that somewhere out there, a magical little coffee shop exists with a frozen coffee drink waiting specifically for me.

And if I hear the words “I brought home another chicken” later today…

I may simply roll myself into the kitchen, pull a garbage bag over my head, and declare myself a sovereign nation.

The Independent Republic of Molly.

Population:

One exhausted woman.

Several magazines.

A television show.

And absolutely ZERO additional chickens allowed.

Happy Saturday, everybody!

May your coffee be frozen, your sleep be uninterrupted, your chores be mysteriously completed by somebody else, and may nobody wake you up at 9 a.m. just to tell you something they could have written on a damn note.

Because some of us were busy being creative until four in the freaking morning!

Now if you'll excuse me…

I have magazines to make.

And chickens to ignore.

August 16, 2026

“You’re too pretty to be single.”

Excuse me?

What the hell does that even mean?

Is that the official opening line in the Social Media Guy Handbook of Things Women Are Supposed to Find Flattering?

Because apparently I missed that meeting.

First of all… you don’t even know me.

You have seen a picture of my face. Congratulations. You have successfully identified that I have a face. Gold star.

That doesn't mean you know my heart, my personality, my history, my baggage, my sense of humor, my favorite things, my least favorite things, or whether I would rather spend Friday night watching Netflix in my pajamas than listen to you explain cryptocurrency for three hours.

And yes, technically, I am married—but separated. I am still in love with my ex, I'm traumatized by dating in general, and I choose to be single.

That last part is important.

I choose it.

Being single isn't necessarily a problem that needs to be solved by some random man sliding into my messages like he's applying for the position of Potential Boyfriend, Entry Level.

And honestly, I could be a serial killer for all you know.

I mean, I'm not.

Probably.

But you don't know that.

So perhaps let's not make assumptions based on cheekbones.

And what exactly does my appearance have to do with my relationship status anyway?

If I'm pretty, I'm apparently “too pretty to be single.”

But here's where social media dating gets absolutely ridiculous.

A guy messages me:

“You're so beautiful.”

“You're gorgeous.”

“Why is someone as pretty as you single?”

Then I politely say, “I'm not interested.”

And suddenly...

“You're a fat bitch anyway.”

WAIT.

What happened?!

Five minutes ago I was apparently the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

Now I'm a fat bitch because I didn't want to date him?

Honey, that's not a personality. That's a temper tantrum with Wi-Fi.

And THAT is exactly why some women don't want to date you.

You didn't get rejected because she's “too picky.”

You got rejected because you showed her exactly why she should have rejected you.

Not all men on social media are like this, of course.

I've actually made some really wonderful friends through social media, including some great men. There are genuinely good people out there.

But then there are the others.

The ones who make you sit there staring at your screen thinking:

“Who the hell raised you?”

Seriously.

What happened to respect?

What happened to basic human decency?

What happened to manners?

And WHERE THE HELL IS MISS MANNERS WHEN WE NEED HER?!

Because apparently we need her now more than ever.

I don't understand why kindness, compassion, respect, and basic manners seem to be becoming endangered species.

Did we stop teaching these things?

Did everyone collectively decide that being an asshole was a personality?

Did somebody accidentally delete the chapter titled “Don't Treat Other Human Beings Like Garbage” from the parenting manual?

Because good Lord.

This world is a mess.

Everybody seems to be so focused on themselves.

Me. Me. Me. Mine. Mine. Mine.

What happened to caring about other people?

What happened to asking someone if they're okay and actually wanting to hear the answer?

What happened to showing up for people?

What happened to loyalty?

What happened to compassion?

What happened to simply being a decent fucking human being?

I try so damn hard to be there for people.

I listen.

I care.

I check on people.

I try to make people laugh when they're having a terrible day.

I try to make people feel seen, appreciated, accepted, and loved.

Meanwhile, I'm over here trying to manage my own life and keep my own head above water, and sometimes it feels like everybody is perfectly happy to climb onto my back while I'm drowning.

Could we maybe not use Molly as a flotation device? Thanks.

I don't understand people who constantly walk all over everyone else.

I don't understand cruelty.

I don't understand intentionally hurting people.

And I definitely don't understand treating someone badly simply because you didn't get what you wanted from them.

I want friends.

Real friends.

I want a group of people I can rely on.

People I can laugh with.

People I can cry with.

People who can tell me I'm being an idiot when I'm being an idiot.

People who will celebrate my victories and sit beside me during my failures.

People who love me and let me love them.

People who don't disappear the second life gets inconvenient.

I want friends who become family.

Because sometimes family isn't necessarily the people you're related to.

And unfortunately, some of the people who were supposed to be my family never really felt like family to me. Many of the people I was closest to have passed away.

So yes...

I want to feel loved.

I want to feel appreciated.

I want to feel respected.

I want to feel wanted.

I want to feel like my existence matters to the people around me.

And apparently some people act like that's asking for the damn moon.

It's not.

Because I give those things to people all the time.

I treat people with respect until they give me a reason not to.

But here's the thing about me:

Don't cross me.

I can be incredibly patient.

I can stay quiet.

I can roll away.

I can bite my tongue until I've practically swallowed the damn thing.

But eventually...

too much is too much.

And when I finally reach that point?

Oh, honey.

You will know.

Just ask my cousin “J.”

There comes a point when you simply cannot take the constant interrupting, the bragging, the self-praise, the holier-than-thou attitude, the constant need to be right, the things being held over people's heads, the rumors, the lies, and the general bullshit anymore.

I stayed quiet for a long time.

Then I didn't.

And apparently nobody had ever told him exactly what they thought before because he was VERY offended.

Well...

Too damn bad!

Sometimes people aren't angry because you're wrong.

Sometimes they're angry because you finally said the thing everybody else was too afraid to say.

And I'm not interested in sugarcoating anymore.

My dad has passed away.

So, you can stop holding that bathtub you helped him buy twenty years ago over his head now.

And maybe stop bringing huge bottles of booze to an alcoholic.

Just a thought.

And when you're visiting someone and you don't let anybody else talk because you interrupt every sentence, dominate every conversation, and even interrupt your own wife...

Well...

Body language speaks pretty damn loudly.

I am clearly not the only person who has feelings about certain behavior. She winced when you kissed her head. She friggin winced! She didn't even sit by you when we were all on the couches.  Plus you made me homeless when I was pregnant. You don't get a free pass for that one. And yes, you did, make all the excuses you want, you did. Enjoy your Cyber truck  and please get your ADHD meds adjusted so the people who have to be around you don't have to get their meds adjusted.

I may simply be the only one willing to say it out loud.

And honestly?

Ahhhhhhhhh!

That felt good!

That rant is over. Yay.

Sometimes you just need to get some of that built-up shit out of your head before it starts renting too much space in there.

So no...

I'm not “too pretty to be single.”

I'm not waiting for some random guy on the internet to rescue me from my single life.

I'm not interested in being insulted because I didn't return someone's attention.

And I'm certainly not going to apologize for wanting respect, kindness, loyalty, friendship, compassion, and genuine human connection.

Those aren't unrealistic expectations.

They're the bare minimum.

And if wanting those things makes me “too much”?

Fine.

I'll be too much.

I'd rather be “too much” than not enough of a human being.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to continue being single, sarcastic, slightly inappropriate, occasionally cranky, probably overthinking everything, and absolutely fabulous.

Because apparently being single isn't a tragedy.

Sometimes it's just peace and quiet.

Thank you for reading.

I needed to get that out.

Seriously.

I needed that.

Have a wonderful Sunday, everybody.

Be kind to somebody today.

And remember:

You never know what someone else is carrying.

So maybe don't add your bullshit to their load.

August 18, 2026

Apparently, there are rules about how we're supposed to dress once we reach a certain age.

I would like to know who made these rules.

And more importantly, who elected them?

Because I have questions.

At 51, apparently I am supposed to “dress my age.”

Okay.

What exactly does that mean?

Did my clothing come with an expiration date?

Did somebody sneak into my closet at midnight and replace my leggings with elastic-waisted beige pants because I had a birthday?

Did I wake up one morning and receive a government-issued cardigan?

Because I didn't.

I went to a clothing store.

I bought clothes.

I did not go wandering into the toddler section at Target looking for a cute little romper and think, “Well, I'm 51 now, so this seems appropriate.”

I went to the grown-ass clothing section.

I picked something I liked.

I paid for it.

I put it on.

End of investigation.

I also didn't get carded for my clothes.

Nobody at the checkout counter said, “I'm sorry, ma'am, but according to our records, you're 51, and this tank top is only available to women between the ages of 27 and 43.”

What is this nonsense?

“Dress Your Age.”

And Then There Is “Dress Your Size.”

Wear only solid colors that are dark.

And Personally?

Me. Me. Me. Dammit!

So, What Exactly Is “Dressing Your Age”?

Why?

Why do we care so much about what other people are wearing?

And why does someone's age suddenly determine what colors, patterns, lengths, fabrics, shoes, or hairstyles they are allowed to enjoy?

If I'm 51 and I want to wear bright colors, leggings and a tank top, apparently I have committed some sort of fashion crime.

Meanwhile, I've seen high-fashion shows where a celebrity walks down the runway wearing what appears to be a sleeping bag wrapped in twelve pounds of feathers, three kitchen curtains and possibly a dead badger.

And everyone gasps.

“BRILLIANT!”

“GENIUS!”

“GROUND-BREAKING!”

“VISIONARY!”

The gown costs $18,000.

I am sitting there in my Target outfit thinking:

Ma'am, that is a comforter with shoulder straps.

But apparently I'm the one who needs fashion advice.

No.

I'm good.

I'll keep my Temu and Target, thank you very much.

Dress your size!

Oh, dear God.

Let's talk about that one.

What does that even mean?

Because I've seen people wearing pants so enormous that their entire ass is apparently trying to escape through the back door.

I've also seen pants so tight that I can identify someone's underwear pattern from three parking spaces away.

And you know what?

That's their business.

Maybe they like the giant pants.

Maybe they like the super-tight pants.

Maybe they don't care what anybody thinks.

Maybe they're comfortable.

Maybe they're uncomfortable but having a fantastic day anyway.

Maybe they're on their way somewhere and simply don't have time for your fashion critique.

Who knows?

And frankly, who cares?

The great thing about living in a free country is that nobody has to dress the way I dress.

And I don't have to dress the way they dress.

We can all just look at each other, think whatever ridiculous thoughts pop into our heads, and then...

Keep our mouths shut.

What a revolutionary concept.

You don't like my outfit?

Look away.

I don't like yours?

I'll look away.

We're both free to continue living our lives without forming a twelve-person fashion tribunal in the parking lot.

Wear red with pink.

Wear purple with orange.

Wear sequins to Walmart.

Wear pajamas to the grocery store if that's what makes your little heart happy.

Wear black from head to toe.

Wear enough neon to be visible from space.

Wear a floral dress with combat boots.

Wear cowboy boots with a prom dress.

Wear a T-shirt that says something inappropriate.

Wear something completely ridiculous.

Or wear the most boring outfit you've ever seen.

It's clothing.

It isn't a moral character assessment.

You don't become a better human being because you matched your shoes to your purse.

And you don't become a worse human being because your shirt doesn't match your pants.

Fashion isn't a personality test.

My favorite outfit has been leggings and a tank top for about a decade.

Sometimes it's a fitted tank.

Sometimes it's a loose tank that is basically one step away from being a tiny dress.

I like bright colors.

I like comfortable clothes.

I have a little bit of a punk edge.

I dress for me.

Not for a husband.

Not for a boyfriend.

Not for some imaginary man standing across the room thinking, “My goodness, that woman is wearing exactly the right shade of taupe.”

I don't care.

I'm not trying to attract a mate.

I'm not trying to attract attention.

I'm trying to walk into a room and look at myself and think:

“Well, damn. I look cute today.”

That's it.

That's the goal.

And yes, I said it.

Me. Me. Me.

Because I am the person who has to live in this body every single day.

I'm the one who has to get dressed in the morning.

I'm the one who has to sit in these clothes.

I'm the one who has to move around in them.

I'm the one who has to look in the mirror.

I'm the one who has to spend all day being me.

So why the hell wouldn't I consider myself when deciding what to wear?

At 51, I don't want to dress younger.

I don't want to dress older.

I want to dress like me.

I look my age because I am my age.

That's how aging works.

I use lotion.

I try to take care of myself.

I've got some pretty damn good genes and I'm grateful for them.

And yes, I occasionally use photo editing when my pictures are being published.

Sue me.

I'm not claiming I woke up looking like a flawless airbrushed magazine cover.

I look how I look.

This is my face.

This is my body.

This is my hair.

This is me.

And if someone thinks I should look different?

Well...

Good luck with that.

Because you're probably going to lose that fight.

Maybe it's simply wearing whatever the hell you want because you are old enough to know yourself.

Maybe dressing your age means dressing in a way that makes you happy.

Maybe it means comfort.

Maybe it means confidence.

Maybe it means wearing something outrageous because you've spent enough years worrying about everybody else's opinions and you're finally tired of that nonsense.

Maybe it means sweatpants.

Maybe it means a ball gown.

Maybe it means leggings and a tank top.

Maybe it means a feather-covered sleeping bag that costs $18,000.

Although, personally, I'm still questioning that one.

The point is this:

You don't owe anybody a particular outfit because you reached a particular birthday.

Wear what you like.

Dress your body however you want.

Dress your size however you want.

Wear clothes that make you smile.

Wear clothes that make you comfortable.

Wear clothes that make you feel like yourself.

And if someone doesn't like it?

They have two perfectly good options:

Look away.

Or...

Shut up.

Because I'm going to wear my bright colors, my leggings, my tank tops, my occasional ridiculous outfits and whatever else makes me happy.

I'm going to dress for myself.

I'm going to enjoy getting dressed.

I'm going to wear stripes with polka dots if I damn well feel like it.

And I'm going to keep doing it at 51, 61, 71 and whatever ridiculous number comes after that.

Because here's the thing nobody seems to understand:

I'm not dressing for my age.

I'm dressing for Molly.

And Molly is pretty damn happy with that arrangement.

Now excuse me.

I have leggings to put on.

August 20, 2026

Let's talk about my favorite things today.

Because apparently my brain has decided that today is one of those lovely little “let's review every single thing that makes life difficult” days. You know, the kind where your emotional support system is coffee, sarcasm, and trying not to throw a decorative pillow at the wall.

So, let's start with one of my absolute favorite things:

Swimming.

Oh, how I miss swimming.

I have always loved it. There is something magical about getting into cool water and just… gliding. No gravity. No struggling. No fighting with your body. Just floating.

Freedom.

Beautiful, peaceful, weightless freedom.

And I haven't been able to swim since I ended up in this fucking chair.

Why?

Because apparently accessible swimming pools are considered some sort of mythical creature.

You occasionally find a pool with a handicap lift, and you think, FINALLY! I CAN SWIM!

And then you discover the lift is broken.

Of course it is.

Because apparently fixing accessibility equipment is somewhere between “optional” and “maybe we'll get around to it when the sun explodes.”

And that makes me furious.

Because swimming isn't some frivolous little luxury to me. It was something that made me happy. Something that made me feel free. Something I could do without thinking about everything my body couldn't do.

I miss that feeling so much that writing this has me dangerously close to tears.

This chair has taken a lot from me.

And yes, I am grateful for the things I still have.

But gratitude doesn't mean I don't get to grieve the things I've lost.

Both things can exist at the same time.

And sometimes I really, really miss being able to move through water.

Another one of my favorite things?

Nutty Bars.

Dear Little Debbie,

I love you.

You are delicious.

You are also currently my enemy.

Because weight loss has apparently turned me into a woman who has to look at a Nutty Bar and say, “No, Deborah. We are not doing this today.”

I have become Big Deborah specifically because Little Debbie and I had a toxic relationship.

And now I'm trying to lose weight, which means I can no longer eat my feelings.

Rude.

Who decided feelings couldn't be calories?

Actually, never mind.

That person probably wears skinny jeans comfortably.

I've also been struggling with my living situation lately.

And that's something I have to word carefully because sometimes life puts you in situations where you have to smile, nod, and pretend everything is sunshine, rainbows, and inspirational refrigerator magnets.

Let's just say that home isn't always as emotionally comfortable as we'd like it to be, and sometimes you have to be careful about what you say when your housing situation depends on keeping certain things… pleasantly vague.

So yes, I have days where I feel like I'm living in a very elaborate episode of Everybody Pretend Everything Is Fine.

And apparently, I'm the star.

Isn't that just delightful?

But I'm trying to keep going.

Because what else can I do?

I love writing.

Writing is one of the things that still makes me feel like me.

Reading, unfortunately, has become much harder.

My brain doesn't always cooperate anymore, and after a little while of reading, the words start turning into decorative little squiggles that apparently have no interest in forming meaningful sentences.

That isn't stupidity.

It isn't laziness.

It isn't me not trying.

Sometimes my brain simply says:

“Nope. We're done here.”

And I wish people understood that.

I don't always have the energy to explain why I can't explain something.

So sometimes I just stop explaining.

Because trying to convince someone that you're not stupid when your brain is misbehaving is exhausting.

And frankly, there are enough people wandering around with perfectly functional brains making questionable decisions that I don't feel obligated to defend mine.

Comedy is another one of my favorite things.

Comedy movies.

Sitcoms.

Anything ridiculous.

Anything silly.

Anything that makes me laugh so hard I make a noise that concerns the animals.

I used to love dramedies.

Now?

Mostly comedy, please.

With perhaps a little mystery sprinkled on top.

Life already provides enough drama.

I don't need Netflix charging me extra for it.

Sometimes too much serious stuff can trigger memories and emotions I don't really want to unpack today.

My whole life seems to be poking at me lately.

So today I am officially prescribing myself large quantities of stupid jokes.

No copay.

I also love painting.

Especially abstract art.

There is something wonderful about putting paint on something and not having to explain what it is.

It's blue because I said so.

It's a blob because I felt like making a blob.

That red streak represents absolutely nothing except the fact that red paint was sitting there looking at me.

Art doesn't always need an explanation.

Sometimes it just needs to exist.

Much like me.

And animals.

Oh, I love animals.

Cats.

Dogs.

All the furry little weirdos.

Animals don't care if you forgot a word.

They don't care if your brain is foggy.

They don't care if you're having a terrible day.

They just look at you like:

“Are you feeding me or not?”

Honestly, excellent priorities.

I miss joking around with friends.

I miss being goofy.

I miss laughing until my stomach hurts.

I miss just doing things.

I miss Scott.

He was my best friend.

We used to have so much fun together.

He was ridiculously silly, and I miss his laughter.

Writing to him isn't the same.

I want to see that smile.

I want to hear that laugh.

I miss so much about him.

And some days the word “miss” doesn't even seem big enough.

I miss going to the mall.

Yes.

The mall.

Remember when we used to voluntarily walk around giant buildings buying things we didn't need?

What a concept.

I miss bowling too.

And I am not particularly good at bowling.

But I loved it.

There is something hilarious about putting on those overpriced, ugly bowling shoes and throwing a giant ball down a polished wooden lane while praying you don't embarrass yourself.

And yes, before anyone gets too smug:

I once scored a 191.

That's basically professional athlete territory as far as I'm concerned.

Don't fact-check me.

Let me have this.

I also love acting.

I've been in quite a few musicals and had some really good roles.

And I can't sing.

At all.

Which makes this even funnier.

Apparently I was such a good actress during auditions that people overlooked the small issue of “Oh dear God, she is singing.”

I may have also… creatively spoken my way through some songs.

Let's call it dramatic musical interpretation.

Not everyone needs to hit the notes.

Some of us simply need to aggressively communicate the lyrics.

Unfortunately, acting has become difficult too because memorizing scripts isn't exactly my brain's favorite hobby anymore.

Once again:

MS brain, ruining everyone's fun since forever.

Every health problem seems to come with its own special little “there's no cure for this” announcement.

And  I can't even take medications that might help my MS because of other health problems I have.

It's a spectacularly annoying arrangement.

Ten out of ten.

Would not recommend.

And yes.

There are days when I feel miserable.

There are days when I feel gross.

Ugly.

Worthless.

Fat.

Stupid.

Helpless.

In pain.

Sometimes the pain alone can mess with your entire perception of yourself.

Pain can make the world smaller.

It can make tomorrow feel impossible.

It can make you forget that there was ever a version of you who laughed easily.

But somewhere underneath all of that is still me.

The woman who loves swimming.

The woman who loves Nutty Bars even though Little Debbie is currently on probation.

The woman who writes.

The woman who paints.

The woman who loves animals.

The woman who loves comedy.

The woman who loves sarcasm.

The woman who loves acting.

The woman who once scored a 191 at bowling and will probably mention it until the end of time.

The woman who misses her friends.

The woman who misses her freedom.

The woman who misses her old life.

The woman who desperately wants to feel happy again.

And I don't think that woman is gone.

I think she's just tired.

Really, really fucking tired!

But she's still in there.

And I don't want to be miserable.

I want my legs back.

I want the people I love around me.

I want a living situation where I don't feel like I have to constantly pretend everything is wonderful.

I want to swim.

I want to laugh.

I want to goof off.

I want to paint something ridiculous.

I want to sit with friends and laugh until somebody snorts.

I want to feel like myself again.

And I honestly believe that if I could have those things back—or even some of them—I could get through just about anything.

So today I'm going to keep going.

Not because everything is fabulous.

Not because I'm magically cured of sadness.

Not because I suddenly have my shit together.

But because there are still favorite things.

And sometimes you have to grab onto the little ones.

A funny movie.

A cat doing something stupid.

A good joke.

A paintbrush.

A memory.

A Nutty Bar that you absolutely should not eat but deeply respect from across the room.

A good laugh.

A favorite song.

A ridiculous conversation.

A little bit of hope.

Those things count.

They really do.

So that's my list of favorite things today.

Now I want to hear yours.

What are your favorite things?

Tell me the silly ones.

The weird ones.

The embarrassing ones.

The things that make absolutely no sense to anyone else but make you ridiculously happy.

Maybe we have some favorites in common.

And maybe, just maybe, talking about the things we love can make today feel a little lighter.

Because sometimes life is heavy enough.

We deserve a little silly.

And a lot of laughter.

Have a good one, friends.

And if you're having one of those days too, I hope you find one tiny thing today that makes you smile.

Even if it's just a cat staring at you like you're an idiot.

Especially if it's a cat.

August 21, 2026

Welcome to today’s second blog, because apparently one dose of my questionable wisdom wasn't enough for one day. So here we go: eight things I wish somebody had sat me down and explained to me before I had to figure them out the hard way.

And by “someone,” I mean literally ANYONE.  A parent.  A grandparent.  A psychic.  A random lady at Walmart.  A fortune cookie. SOMEBODY.

1. Delicious food is NEVER good for you and ALWAYS makes you fat.

Explanation:

This is one of life's cruelest practical jokes. Nobody has ever looked at a plate of steamed broccoli and said, “OH MY GOD, THIS IS BETTER THAN SEX.” But put cheese, bacon, butter, garlic, carbs, and approximately 14,000 calories on a plate and suddenly we're having a spiritual experience.

Meanwhile, the healthy food is sitting there looking like it was personally designed to punish us.

Apparently, my body sees a piece of fruit and says, “Meh.”

But give me a plate of loaded fries and my body is like, “EXCELLENT. LET'S BUILD A FORTRESS OUT OF FAT.”

And don't even get me started on desserts. Cake doesn't even have the decency to pretend it's nutritious. Cake shows up wearing frosting and says, “I am going to ruin your diet and you're going to THANK ME.”

Rude.

2. The guys that say they are “good” or “nice” guys are always the worst guys.

Explanation:

If a man has to announce that he is a “nice guy,” proceed with caution.

Because genuinely nice people generally don't need a press conference.

You don't see someone helping an elderly person across the street and then screaming, “EVERYBODY WRITE THIS DOWN! I AM A NICE PERSON!”

The truly dangerous ones come with their own marketing department.

“I'M DIFFERENT.”

“I'M A GOOD MAN.”

“I'D NEVER HURT YOU.”

“I'M NOT LIKE OTHER GUYS.”

And somewhere in the background, the universe is quietly whispering:

“Oh honey. Run.”

The good ones usually just behave like decent human beings without needing a billboard, parade, marching band, and promotional merchandise.

3. Make your own family out of friends because actual family members quite often suck.

Explanation:

DNA is not a personality test.

Just because someone shares your blood does not automatically mean they deserve unlimited access to your life, your energy, your home, your emotions, or your last nerve.

Sometimes the people who aren't related to you by blood will show up for you harder than people who share your last name.

Friends can become family.

And sometimes your chosen family knows you better, supports you more, laughs with you more, and is significantly less likely to bring up something embarrassing you did when you were twelve.

Meanwhile, certain relatives will remind you about something you did in 1997 like they have been maintaining a CIA FILE ON YOUR ENTIRE EXISTENCE.

At some point you realize:

Family isn't always who you're born with. Sometimes it's who stays.

And honestly, that's pretty damn beautiful.

4. People who say they will never judge you judge you more than anyone else judges you.

Explanation:

Whenever somebody says, “I don't judge people,” my internal alarm system immediately goes:

BULLSHIT DETECTED.

Because humans judge.

We judge hairstyles.

We judge outfits.

We judge relationships.

We judge people's music choices.

We judge the person at the grocery store buying seventeen cans of cat food and one cucumber.

We judge ourselves more than anybody else.

The difference is whether you're cruel about it.

Someone who says, “I don't judge anyone!” while simultaneously explaining why everyone else's life choices are terrible has somehow missed the entire point.

The people who genuinely don't judge you usually don't need to announce it.

They just look at you and say:

“Well...that's certainly a choice. Anyway, do you want tacos?”

Those are your people.

5. You can become handicapped in the blink of an eye.

Explanation:

This is one of the biggest things I wish somebody had explained to me sooner.

Life can change FAST.

One minute you're doing whatever you normally do, and the next minute your body decides to rewrite the entire instruction manual without consulting you.

And suddenly things you once took for granted—walking, working, driving, standing, climbing stairs, getting through a normal day—can become challenges.

The frustrating part is that people often assume disability means someone is incapable of doing anything.

It doesn't.

It means your abilities may have changed.

And sometimes the hardest part isn't even the physical limitation.

It's dealing with people who look at you and think, “But you don't LOOK disabled.”

Apparently, disability is supposed to come with flashing lights, a siren, and a certificate hanging from your forehead.

News flash:

You don't have to look disabled to be disabled.

Life is unpredictable. Be kinder to people. You have absolutely no idea what somebody is fighting just to make it through the day.

6. Waffles are always better than pancakes.

Explanation:

This is not an opinion.

This is science.

Pancakes are basically flat waffles that gave up.

Waffles have little squares specifically designed to hold butter, syrup, fruit, whipped cream, chocolate, peanut butter, or whatever other delicious nonsense you feel like throwing on top.

Pancakes just sit there like:

“Hello. I am a circle.”

Congratulations, pancake.

So are tires.

Waffles have architecture.

Waffles have texture.

Waffles have POCKETS.

And those pockets are tiny syrup reservoirs.

The waffle has clearly thought this through.

Team Waffle forever.

7. Being skinny doesn't make you beautiful.

Explanation:

Somewhere along the way, society decided beauty came with a number attached to it.

Apparently, if the number on the scale goes down, you're automatically more attractive.

That's ridiculous.

Beauty is not measured in pounds.

It's not measured in inches.

It's not measured in dress sizes.

And it's definitely not determined by whether your body looks like something produced by an airbrush and a Photoshop subscription.

Beautiful people come in every shape, size, color, age, style, and level of “I absolutely do not give a damn what you think about my outfit.”

Confidence can be sexy.

Kindness can be beautiful.

Personality can make somebody unforgettable.

And somebody who lights up a room because they're genuinely happy to be there can be far more attractive than someone who looks perfect but acts like a miserable refrigerator.

Being skinny is a body type. Being beautiful is an entire experience.

8. Being funny really does make you better looking.

Explanation:

I firmly believe humor is one of the world's greatest beauty filters.

You can meet someone who is objectively attractive, but if they have the personality of wet cardboard, suddenly you're thinking:

“Well...this has been disappointing.”

Then somebody else walks in, makes you laugh so hard you snort, says something completely inappropriate at exactly the right moment, and suddenly you're looking at them like:

“Well hello there, handsome.”

Funny people make life easier.

They can turn an awkward moment into a story.

They can turn a bad day into something survivable.

They can make you laugh when you desperately need to.

And honestly, anyone who can make me laugh until my stomach hurts deserves bonus points.

Because wrinkles eventually show up.

Hair changes.

Bodies change.

Gravity wins.

But somebody who can make you laugh until you can't breathe?

That's the good stuff.

So, there you have it: eight completely unsolicited pieces of wisdom from someone who apparently had to learn everything through trial, error, sarcasm, questionable decisions, and a suspicious amount of waffles.

If there's one thing I've learned, it's this:

Life does not come with an instruction manual.

It comes with consequences, weird people, unexpected plot twists, delicious food, terrible decisions, amazing friends, questionable men, and occasionally a waffle.

And honestly?

I'll take the waffle.

— Molly Roxx

Writer. Author. Smartass. Professional overthinker. Occasional dispenser of unsolicited wisdom.

 August 24, 2026

There are a lot of things people tell you about getting older.

You know… the usual stuff.

“You’ll get wrinkles.”

“Your metabolism will slow down.”

“You’ll get gray hair.”

“You’ll have aches and pains.”

What they DON’T tell you is that somewhere along the way, society apparently decides you have become a slightly defective appliance and should now be handled accordingly.

And THAT is where I have a problem.

Because yes, I am 51.

FIFTY-ONE.

Not 91.

Not 147.

And I am definitely not suffering from dementia and waiting for someone to explain to me how a microwave works.

And even if I were 91, or 101, or 201 and had forgotten my own name, I would STILL deserve respect.

Apparently, getting older comes with a complimentary loss of social status.

People look at you differently.

They talk to you differently.

They start assuming you can't do things.

They tell you to “dress your age.”

They tell you to “act your age.”

Excuse me?

WHO MADE THESE RULES?

And where can I submit a formal complaint?

Because I would like to speak to management.

I get called “ma'am” a lot, which honestly doesn't bother me. A lot of my female friends absolutely HATE it, though, so I understand the emotional trauma of hearing it.

But a few years ago, a Walmart employee called me “Madam.”

MADAM.

I nearly looked behind me to see if there was a Victorian woman standing there with a parasol.

“Excuse me, Madam, your carriage is waiting.”

No, sir. I'm here for toilet paper and Pop-Tarts.

Calm down.

Then there's the assumption that because you're older, you must need help.

The funny part?

People don't necessarily offer help.

They just stare at you like you're a complicated math problem.

And here's something I've noticed: when I was younger and walking, people were much more likely to hold doors open for me.

Now that I'm in a wheelchair?

Apparently, the door has entered witness protection.