Skip to main content

Of course you realize this means war

Life's given me a lot to write about lately but nothing I want to publish on the Internet. God knows there are shit-tons of idiots out there who broadcast everything on the Internet from their morning poops to their evening circle jerks.

I'm not one them.

Health scares, financial hardships, family feuds -- they've all been stewing for the past three years. They're still stewing, and all I want to do is hide -- just bury my head in the sand and wait for my f***ing prom funeral; whatever John Bender would say to a 35-year-old Claire Standish. (I love The Breakfast Club.) 

What I'm getting at in this scenic-detour sort of way is that I lack the energy -- moxy -- lately to spin my bull s**t into funny anecdotes on the trials and tribulations of being a tortured artist, writer, mother, wife and web analyst. There's only so much Bad News a person can take, and I reached my quota two months ago. 

The good news: I'm done hiding


It's time I give Life a swift kick in the balls -- no more apologies for writing; no more accepting "I'll do _____ tomorrow;" no more waiting on hold; no more nodding "yes" when I really mean "no;" no more idleness; and no more compromise. I'M DONE.  

Exhibit A: "Get rid of your crap!"

After years of begging Jerod "Let's have a garage sale," I took the choice away from him. We're having a garage sale  this week, and whatever toys the kids and Jerod leave laying around the house -- stacked on my kitchen counters and cupboards -- will be sold or donated. 

Exhibit B: "We do it the old fashioned way, we earn it!"

I complain  about the same stupid things over and over again -- day after day -- and nothing changes. An hour ago -- Jerod interrupted my typing. (I was in our room with the door closed.)

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"Are you working on the blog or the book?"

"I'm typing. Does it really matter what I'm working on?"

He looked at me with a shocked, confused expression like I've never complained about his interruptions before. MOTHER OF PEARL -- He's proofread a dozen posts about them.


Last night at 9:30 -- I told him I was going to bed.

"Good night."

I was just on sleep's doorstep at 10:25 when he barged in the room -- the door was closed, the lights were out, the T.V. was off.

"I didn't know you were sleeping in here."

"Are you kidding me?"

"What?"

There will be NO MORE FREE LUNCHES in this establishment -- be prepared.

Want something from me? ANYTHING?

EARN IT!

Comments

Post a Comment

I showed you mine -- it's your turn now.

Popular posts from this blog

The insecure writer's support group

The ground is important -- for several reasons.

Among them

Gravity makes no sense without it -- there's no mandate that science be logical so long as our scientists are the smartest smartypants on the planet, in which case "because I said so" is an acceptable explanation. The ground is important, because it's something to build on -- a starting point, a foundation.

I respect the ground, because it has on occasion fallen out from under me, and it's rather unsettling to watch your life in free-fall mode -- to see your accomplishments disintegrate in an instant or a decade in some cases. It all depends on how fast you're falling.

Most of us drop in slow motion. We'll catch a ledge or an up draft every once in a while and think "this is it!" But then we go on falling. Or do we? Is the "bottom" just a figment of our imaginations? Can we lay new ground wherever we choose?


Ask Alice

None of my friends growing up were impressed with Disney's…

Writers get laid

Writers get laid -- or they would if they tried -- because people -- especially women -- are impressed by the phrase, "I'm a writer." It's romantic.

Introducing yourself as a writer insinuates substance and depth of character; people like that. They don't know why, except that one-dimensional characters on T.V. sitcoms and big-screen romantic comedies prattle on and on about the whole package -- a good looking, funny, intelligent single with rock-solid values and money.

People admire the skill and dedication it takes to be a novelist or a journalist or a screen writer  -- "I always wanted to be a writer," they tell you with stars in their eyes.

Whether they know it's a myth or not they imagine us in rich, thrilling lives with sports cars and beach houses and Louboutin shoes like Carrie Bradshaw. So the woman at the grocery store doesn't feel bad when she puts back the US Weekly she read cover to cover before she checks out.

Or downloading unauth…

TOWANDA!

I am one dumb-luck happenstance away from a full-fledged nervous breakdown -- no kidding this time.

My back is pretty sturdy by now -- random bouts of unemployment, mounting debt, hooligan children, crazy family members (they're all nuts including me) -- I can carry a shit-ton of crap in my nifty ain't-life-swell backpack, but I'm no frickin' body builder. And it's not even big things that are pushing me over -- random bouts of unemployment, mounting debt, hooligan children ... it's the shit-storm of stupid people raining down on me like poops from Heaven.
The latest was a Florida couple--a mullet-sporting, NASCAR-loving twat and her top-heavy husband -- in a movie theater parking garage. I was so close to knocking their teeth down their throats -- that's assuming they had teeth -- I could taste blood.
For starters they came fishtailing into the garage and nearly plowed into a row of parked cars. They raced around the place like a couple of Earnhardt wannab…