OR Go Blog Yourself.
My blogging, as of late, has sucked (Yes, yes, for lack of a better word and all that SHIT. Want to help me out? Find a BETTER WORD for me.) I spend all day working my ass off, then come home and work my ass off, and then go to sleep while still mentally working my ass off, and feel not one ounce of creativity until right before I fall asleep.
keep reading »Right as I close my eyes, right before I lose conciousness, that is when my mind starts weaving unbelievable phrases. They just pop into my head like a gift. Almost like reading a book. And I am the kind of person who reads books like that. I don't give a SHIT about the plot. I'll even go on record as saying I don't give TWO SHITS about the plot. I am there for the words. I eat them up, like vitamins. And I am the kind of person who eats vitamins. Marvel at how the author has taken words that so sophomorically (Nope. I don't even care if I have misused that word) fall out of my mouth and off of my tongue to make me sound relatively concious.
Anyone who knows me knows that I NEED my sleep. Especially at this point in the game. No sleep, and TCWH becomes a ranting, raving, alcohol guzzling, foul mouthed (Wait, wait, wait...I'm making a point here. I know that I'm USUALLY like that, anyway.), Grumpy-assed BITCH.
I was talking to Mark the other day (Yes, I think e-mailing is talking. Humor me, will ya?), and we were talking about some bloggers of note, and how they feel the need to POST! SOMETHING! GREAT! with every post, and as a result post once a month. Suck. I wrote something psycho along the lines of... (Wait, I'll go find it. Scurries off)
I do agree with you about the whole standards thing. But you know what? I get sick of that. The Here is my WONTASTIC fucking post for the month, and I get to read it again and again and again. Fuck that. I want to know what you had for dinner. I want to know that your friend died. What your daughter looks like. Your socks don't match. That you don't like Jimmy Buffet. (Who sounds like the stalker now?) Know what I mean?
And that's alll she wrote! My little rant about the sleep? Means I am not dragging my butt out of bed to write down the snippets that scatter around in my brain right before I fall asleep. I'd be up all fucking night. Ooh! Ooh! Write that down! No, no, no! It will sound better if you type it like that!! No, like that! No, erase that! I mean, can you really fucking imagine?
Thus, my dilemma. I know my blogging sucks as of late. But do you really want to hear about how I chowed down that Weight Watchers Fettucine Alfredo and thought it was DEE! VINE! ? Or how I only got about five minutes of Alex time to myself yesterday because parents kept coming into the classroom and wanting to talk? Or how I am terrified that everytime I spend extended periods of time around little kids that my humor and intelligence are "elementary-ized"? Or how I am so fucking exhausted from school that everyone who meets me thinks I'm a dumb blonde because I cannot say anything coherent? Or how I obsessed yesterday that I looked stupid because I wore capris with long socks and sneakers and a shirt and a hoodie that were not even close to matching? Probably not.
God (Or should I try and emulate a real dumb blonde and say, "Gah"? WTF, JESSICA SIMPSON? WHAT THE FUCK?! Why yes, I am screaming and tearing my hair out. I don't understand why she thinks omitting the d would stop her from taking the Lord's name in vain. I mean, if someone calls me Al - and I will totally call you Betty - I STILL know they are talking about me, you know?) , somebody get me an EFF YOU SEE KAY EYE ENN GEE hobby, y'all. Or a recorder, then, as I'm falling asleep, I can just hit the little record button and start talking. It'll be for both our own goods, I swear.