I'm back home. In all honestly, I started this blog so I'd have a 'safe' place to talk shit. Apparently I'm averse to talking shit even in safe places. Good for me. Bad for writing.
My inability to write without having to censor to protect the, eh, I wouldn't say innocent, however...Life is different now. WAAAAAAAAY better.
And so, for now, I'm spewing profanities and profundity back where it all began.
Sorry for the false start here.
I mean, in the grand scheme of things, I'm not a total shithead. Just at the present moment as related to this blog. In the past when I'd gone on a writing sebbatical, I've blathered on about how my inner writer is dead, or you know, drunk and passed out in the corner by the keg after a few wicked keg stands, but this time that is not the case.
Summers where I live? Are short. About as short as the previous sentence. And so I try to enjoy the fuck out of them. And that is what I've been up to. Sounds a lot better than, "Ignoring my blog."
Smooches. I have a few rays of sun to play in, at the moment. Before the looming winter descends!
I don't really exist today. Barely existed yesterday, which was not so bad considering I didn't exist at all the day before. And barely existing is surely preferable to non-existence. Right? I mean, I think? Hard to say sometimes. Every once in a while I get to thinking I've made myself so small, my brain might be big enough for two (fighting) brain cells. Or however that saying goes.
Being ignored is crushing. Absolutely crushing.
Worse, when the bits of assurance I'm given that I do in fact exist are blithely tumbled at me through squinty eyes and down a crinkled nose and I jump, no, lunge at them...What the fuck?
What did I do wrong? I'm not perfect. So not perfect. Would be nice to have the opportunity to be, I don't know, better? Perfection has always eluded me.
Been shitty these days.
I am a little sad. No reason for it. Just how I started feeling in the paper products section of Target looking for tissues. Good thing I found them despite Target's attempt to confuse the shit out of me by changing the entire store around.
Boo-hiss. And boo-hoo.
I hate being sad. Makes me feel like an ingrate. But there's always a touch of it in me. Two cups of ridiculousness and a dash of sorrow. The consistency is all screwed up otherwise.
That's how I roll, I guess.
It's like, I miss me. But I don't know what about me I'm missing. There are gobs of possibilities.
I am eternally grateful, though, that my words are finding their way to the keyboard once again. At least I'm not missing that. 'Cause that sucked worse than shedding a few tears in Target for no good reason ever could.
If this post makes you feel bad, well then good. I mean, I don't mind if you feel a little bad. I'd like that actually. But don't go feeling too bad. It isn't your fault I'm part genetically heinous.
I recall, the day after the election in 2008, opening up the local paper and seeing a photo that made me do a double-take. I mean, once I was able to focus my ninja eyes on said photo and exclude the double-vision. Most ninjas probably take a day off from ninjary after an evening of drunken sisterly debauchery, but not me...I'm dedicated like that. Ahem, back to the photo. Apparently, whilst I gallivanted about Denver with my seester, quelling my fears about the election's outcome with muchas cervezas simultaneously enjoying my first evening 'away' from Annie, the locals at home were enjoying their own little shindig. I would have had an awful time there, likely. Because not one person in the photo appeared cross-eyed, I did spy a few pinkies sticking out from wine glass holding hands, and the festive photo featured...Socks. Yes, the newspaper featured a photo of celebratory sock-wearing Democrats. These hard-working and admirable folks (I know, I was knocking on doors along-side them) were victoriously toasting Obama’s win, for the newspaper, in their socks. Their fucking socks! WHAT?!
Growing up in Jersey I can’t ever remember taking my shoes off when I went visiting, so I’m inclined to think it is a regional custom. Which, okay. Right. Got it. But for the love of, Jesus Christ, just about ANYTHING (including Jesus Christ if you’re into that sort of thing), if you are hosting a party the likes of which will result in press coverage, cover your carpet with plastic or some shit! Don’t request people take off their shoes. Otherwise I will still be talking about the photographic evidence almost two years later.
Personally, I absolutely fucking HATE this custom because my Mom-Mom, bless her heart, may her soul rest in peace, I adored the ever-loving SHIT out of the woman, but she slipped me the genes that make my feet reek (she also gave me the awesome as all get out gene, I’m pretty sure, so we’re still cool). Not only do my feet reek, but they’re ugly. I won’t go into details, don’t worry. You can take a bite of that sandwich. Suffice it to say, my feet are sick. Seriously ill. They be illin’ as the cool kids say. Said. Once upon a time.
If I ever have the opportunity to traipse across your doorstep and I stumble upon a pile of shoes in the process, I will begrudgingly oblige. Though I guarantee you there will be ice cubes freezing in my freezer and in dire need of my immediate attention. I will not stink stick around. Which is actually really nice of me. You deserve a twitchy nose in my humble opinion. But I err on the side of not looking like an asshole given the choice. Being an asshole is another story altogether…Looking (worse: smelling) like one, no thanks.
Once at home tending to the freezing of the ice cubes, I’ll mentally add you to the list of people not to visit unless freshly showered and newly socked. I’ll also curse (if I really like you, anyway) that visiting you, my friend, will take careful planning. You see, when I’m visiting houses such as yours, I only use my stinky shoes to walk from my house to my car and my car to your house. Yes. I really do remove my shoes while driving somewhere I know that my shoes will not be welcome. That kind of careful planning. And since I’m a shitty careful plannerer, I probably won’t visit you very often.
But I’ll invite you over to my place. I’ll still like you. You pristine carpeted bitch. Drop by any time. Feel free to wear your shoes. My place is nice for winding down after a romp in the mud. Just bring beer. Drunken vacuuming isn’t illegal. Yet.
Brian: Dude, this shirt has been washed and it still smells like diesel.
Sara: Well, you should tell your boyfriend Vin not to wear so much cologne.
Brian: *stares*
Sara: I mean, you have a wife to hide your affair from after all.
Brian: Are you done?
Sara: I think so.
Brian: Okay.
Sara: I washed that shirt, like, ten times. Can't believe it still smells.
Brian: Diesel stinks.
Sara: That's cute how you call him by his last name.
You know, I couldn't be more relieved that we've been joking like this again. It wasn't like that for a while. For a while our dry humor morphed into underhanded sarcasm. Like, 'just jokes' that you can't defend yourself against? It hasn't been like that for a while. Thank goodness.
When I first started blogging, many, many moons ago, I was very, VERY surprised at what transpired. In all honesty, I figured I'd blather on about a bunch of shit and it would echo throughout the great abyss that is Teh Internets and remain wholly, or mostly, unheard. That didn't happen. Not in the least.
What did happen was awesome. Not only did people hear me, but I heard them. I made lots of friends. Really great friends. We had this little bloggy neighborhood thing going on. There was always a dash of sugar or smidgen of butter or both right around the corner. And to this day, I can still knock on those neighbors doors.
That's what my previous incarnation had lost. Community. I mean, okay, perhaps there was a big community in my wake, but I don't really deal well with big communities. I'm a small town girl. Probably why I moved from a majorly populated area to a more sparsely populated area. Everpresent tourists notwithstanding. I can't go to the grocery store in my current hometown without happening upon someone I know while wandering the aisles in search of corn starch (why the fuck can I NEVER remember what aisle corn starch is in???). Anywho, I may lament the small town gig now and again, but I'll suck it up and confess: I'm hard-wired for small town.
All of this preamble is to say, if you are so inclined, please share your blog with me here. If you read me, I'd really like to read you. I remember when my sidebar included links to all of my friends. And I'd like for that to be the case again. I'd like to visit your fishbowl now and again.
Also? I'm staying at home with the kids for the indeterminate future. That should read: adult stimulation wanted. And friends. Friends are cool. Old and new. Silver and gold. Ahem. Brownie trip. No, you sillies. Not the college variety! Mmm, brownies...
All righty neighbors. I'm off to search for my blue sweater now. Haven't seen that thing in ages!
© Blogger templates Shiny by Ourblogtemplates.com 2008
Back to TOP
