There's this link up at the top of the page I'm on. It says, "Need exciting new blog topics? Get a dose of inspiration with our 10 TIPS FOR FINDING NEW BLOG TOPICS." (That last part isn't actually in all caps; it's where the link is embedded. I just - oh, bloody fucking fuckity fuck. I was trying to illustrate the link without having to actually include it. But this explaining is feeling way more like overkill than it was supposed to. OH MY GOD WHY CAN'T I DO ANYTHING WITHOUT GETTING DISTRACTED.) So the link. It's pretty funny because it's not why I can't blog, because I lack topics. No --- my problem is much more, "when?" And, "which of the hundreds of them?" And then I get overwhelmed and have a goddam aneurism and try to quit for the seventieth time and about -4 people notice and I fight with my husband and yell at my son and kick the dog and wish I could get rip-roaring drunk and lose myself for a few minutes and then I attempt drinking and either fall asleep on round two or get drunk enough that the next day is pure, unadulterated shit through a straw and I don't do it again for a long time. And I'm still not writing in the interim and I'm still wallowing in my own bloody stew of whatever-the-fuck-my-problem-is-today and I -- oh. Well. I have, at least, conquered the audience of my peers who stare at my fingers as I type blog posts; they're but outlines of their former sunless selves in their deep, glowering, grimace-laden stacked-to-the-rafters horrificalities. And the outlines are made of sugar. Sugar that reminds me of coke. Coke would be fun. Haven't done it in so long, now. I've a much too depthful taste for it. So it's good that I haven't access to such things. No; I'm only allowed access to shams, imitators of the powdery stuff; i.e., pharmaceuticals. I have reams of untouched bottles of various stuffs that are supposed to knock the a.d.d. square in the proverbial kisser, but they don't do anything but make me insaner. Plus, these days, I get panic attacks when I drive, and that's its own plateau of ridiculous that I can't even begin to tear open, much as I'd like, since what I most need to do is go to bed, even though it's old-lady-bedtime-hour and my ancient, still-longing-to-be-badass part is fairly hair-on-end about breaking down this last OLD, old habit of mine to stay up too late and think thinky thoughts far into the night. I've chosen, recently, to see sleep as my new stimulant, my new intoxicant. I want it like I once wanted to fuck certain gorgeous, weird people. I want to sleep until I wake up and don't feel tired anymore. If that means going to bed at old-lady-time, then SO FUCKING BE IT. Got that, brain? I defy thee. I'm gonna go to bed at 9 motherfucking p.m. OH, YEAHHHH (Kool-Aid wallbreaker style).
I've decided I'm beyond all hope in the weirdo dept. I'm just trying to sit tight and get through this part of the program where I repair my lack-of-sleep dilemma and then somehow magically find a box of extra time and use it and write and write and write and my soul grows back together and then, oh, THEN. Food will taste like rainbows and sunshine and sunshine will grow inside my skin and people will stand near me, once that part of my life unfolds, so they can capture some of the effervescent golden light that my body creates, like a weather pattern, with a rainy season and even some snow but always with a cup of hot cocoa handed out to anyone who requires one.
So that's it. That's what I want to be when I grow up.
Magic.
I think we all want to be magic when we grow up. Me too, anyway.
Posted by: magpie | June 10, 2009 at 02:22 AM
this totally made me giggle. the -4 people who noticed? totally. i don't have a dog, but can i kick yours?
only half kidding. unless you were offended, in which case i am totally kidding.
Posted by: Yo | June 10, 2009 at 11:58 AM