I said, “Yeah, I surfed through the news, and then started watching Fight Club, so… I was all kinds of inspired to write some shit.”
On weekend mornings, I get out of bed much earlier than my husband. If I’m lucky, he’ll sleep at least another four hours after I’ve already arisen and shone. Those early hours of blue-velvet sky and soft light are my most treasured moments because, as much as I hate it, I am a morning person. I’m nocturnal… but I’m still a morning person. And an introvert. I wake up in mid-thought. I’ve got lists, and essays, and posts tingling in my fingertips before my feet even hit the floor. My most productive time of day is between 6 am and 9 am. (From 9 to 11 is a crap-shoot; I’m at the mercy of chaos theory – a would-be writer’s ultimate excuse. Sometimes I can ride that early morning wave of creative writing ’til lunchtime, and other times I’m spent and passed out on the beach by 9:30. It depends on any number of factors, such as how needy the cats are, how much sleep I got… if whoever is outside making all that noise at this hour can stop it already, and/or when someone else turns on the TV and breaks my concentration… again.) But, generally speaking, I love the dark, quiet, solitary morning hours best.
My head has been composing non-stop now for the last few weeks. I’ve got the Energizer Bunny of brain matter up there lately. Now that the holidays are right around the corner, everyone is showing up and reminding me of something else I wanted to write about. Hey, tell this story… hey, do you remember when that happened… hey, I’m an opinion about whatever, hey, we’re feelings who want to be heard, too! But after my 1500-word post last Friday, I wanted to do a couple shorter reads for the weekend – partly as a palate-cleanser to show some diversity to any readers who might get put off by an endless flow of wordy, manic, meandering mind streams… and partly because it’s the weekend and people are busy doing weekend stuff. I think it’s better to save my longer reads for weekdays… when a majority of people tend to be at work and have more time to fuck off reading random blogs.
As it happens, I am apparently something of a neophyte when it comes to blogging. But… that does make sense since up until a few weeks ago I’d never really been on much of a mission to pursue blogging. Prior to NanoPoblano 2017, I hadn’t found enough motivation to maintain a blog. My home computer situation is a veritable clusterfuck of obnoxious annoyances — mostly due to the fact that I hate shopping, and big purchases especially fill me with a raging anxiety that comes from knowing how overwhelming my buyer’s remorse is going to be when I get home. So I have a 10-year old zombie Windows XP desktop that’s too old to support any newer Windows versions. It’s sad. I can’t even use my gmail on it anymore. In situations like this, my usual M.O is to wait for something to have a catastrophic failure, tell myself I can live without whatever it, realize I can’t take living without it, and then hope I get lucky at Best Buy (or car dealer, or grocery store, or wherever), but if I don’t, who cares because I have a computer again, yay! (Or transportation, or food or whatever.)
I’m pretty sure I mentioned this before, but there was a period of time when I ran out of gas 5 times in one year. This did not come without an important life lesson, I can assure you.
Yes, I am aware of how pathetic I am in this regard, but I’ve been able to Stuart Smalley my way though it, so I’m okay with that now.
The older I get, the more I realize how stupid all the negative things were I used to tell myself. And how stupid it is to care about the negative things other people say. I’m over 50 — I don’t have time for that nonsense anymore. I’m here to live my fucking happy as much as possible with the time I have.
Recently, I happened across a blog about how to blog, and I found out there’s some kind of no-swearing bullshit in the tips for successful blogging. Well…
Do I conform in the name of a pandering wordsmithstress and all that implies, or do I live and die in my commode-breathed obscurity, alone with the stinking pile of my battered, self-righteous pride. As I’m a quitter AND a narcissist, you can see what a conundrum this poses for a personality like mine. (I didn’t say I’m an erotic dancer, I said I’m a neurotic dancer.) Fortunately, I’m over 40, so I don’t really understand any of this anyway. And besides… my inner Tyler Durden keeps reminding me that eventually all the lights are going to go out forever anyway, and none of this shit is gonna matter one way or the other. So fuck it.
Live your fucking happy.
A couple years back, I wanted to change my twitter bio and I wanted to get my husband’s advice. I asked, “Is this an accurate description of me: ‘poet, hockey fan, smart-ass, nature geek, freelance nerd, thought-enthusiast, profanity master, weirdo?‘”
He said, “‘Profanity master’ needs to be higher on the list.”
He’s a pretty funny motherfucker sometimes.