hurted.

If you've been doing nothing but reading my posts from the inception of this blog, which would mean you've probably, by now, hung yourself often enough due to the rather long-ish breaks taken between entries to have become a porn star for how well-hung you are, oh, that was weak, anyway, ANYWAY, you might recall that I had a brother, and he is gone.  Well, not gone, just far.  Beachy.  Beachy in a lives-in-a-homeless-institution full-time.  In Florida.  But as I've poorly joked before, if you've gotta go homeless, why not go beach?

Why do you read this?

You need to really pause and reflect for a moment.  Seriously.  It's almost more sad that you read this than that I write it.  For I am truly a low, despicable creature in the game of the writerlies.

So it occurs to me, as I work and toil and sweat back here in the creating area, the area where I create things, I won't extrapolate for your unknowingness even though it may vex you, because I haven't time.  I am supposed to be churning and burning, bitches.  To the point, ho!  (Ye thundercats of glory and, gee, where are *those* plastic fast-food accessories for the movie that is yet to be?  Unless it already was.  I would not know if it came prior to my child's birth.  I'm unsavvy in the realm of kid-meal plunder from before a certain time.  Yeah.  I.e., uncool.  What.)

Point!  Ho!

*ahem*

(Pause for effect; or, more earnestly, pause to pretend, well, not pretend, but actually DO work.)

But I am back, and it is only to say that I think I'm afraid to have a second kid, because what if it makes my first kid hate me and us and everything and become mentally ill (but in a way that's completely un-hip and un-trendy and doesn't land him in art school and then showing in a gallery or whatever the fuck those kinds of mentally ill people end up doing) and end up homeless, in a very non-homie (yo) way?

In a way that hurts more than ever because it's already happened once?

Then again, what are the odds?

And yet --

My dad, his eyes.  Those hollowed-out eyes.

I can't commit onlineicide, it seems, because every time I'm ready to plunge into those soft, easy-on-the-brain waters of not-writing-blog-posts-in-my-head-every-waking-and-non-waking-minute bliss, I run into this:  the urge.

The bloody, inescapable urge.

Forgive me, I must beg, because while my desire to prevent you from having to seethe in my madness, or see the madness at all, my physical thundercat takes my arms and shakes the words out like flying bits of dirty fur.

I'll try harder, next time.

Promise.

Comments

[hoppytoddle]

Hey, I thrust my arm to the sky & shout "Shee-RA!" every time I finish a tedious cleaning task. & I'm having that scary second kid in a few months. & started reading you from momocrats, so I know you're smart, too.

[Neil]

You are the fucking best. I say that with love.

[marymurtz]

I'd give you all kinds of encouragement, but who listens to losers like us that read your blog faithfully?

Nobody, that's who.

But if you're listening, then hear this: you rock. Oh and? As an eleventh kid, it's not the mom I hated, it was the other kids. So you're totally off the hook there.

[Redneck Mommy]

I miss ya sweetie.

I can't believe I'm not going to see you this year.

You will be much missed.

[flutter]

love you, sweet Deb.

[Marcie]

Cue Whitney (or Dolly, which ever you prefer)...I will always love you!

[Kristen]

As different as our lives are / have been, somehow in reading the last several posts of the last several months here, I think I know exactly what you're talking about. Two years ago (if you remember... because home on the fringe is pretty damned dusty anymore) I started having this kind of struggle, the writing kind, and I am obviously still in it. Hang in there. I will if you will.

[Andrea]

What's worse? Your bursts of blogging or my merry-go-round-how-many-blogs-can-I-create-before-they-kick-me-off-the-internet? I think my three URLs is worse (little bald doctors, shutter bitch, and now this one).

I'm here. I'll follow you. I lurve you and will fax you cookies and a babysitter. Or myself. I'll fax myself to you so that we can conquer the world together. Or just sit around drinking wine and eating chocolate and braying laughter at each other for past stupidities.

hang in there. most people with two kids don't have to endure the sight of them beaching it homeless style, and there is love there. Love is the most important. Plus, you're not the judgy fire and brimstone mom that drives so many to flee-dom.

[dodo]

this fur, is it pretty? under the dirt?

[Kyla]

I'm always glad when you pop up in my reader.

I don't think the second kid thing has to go down that way. I also think that if those things are going to happen, a sibling isn't the real cause of it, ya know? Brain chemistry and all.

[apathy lounge]

How is it that someone isn't paying you to write all the time?? Your words are a colorful carnival of motion and sound. Don't stop writing and I won't have to stop reading.