I guess I’ve had a case of writer’s block, even though 2-4 times a week I lay in bed at night mentally writing a great blog post. But by morning I’ve either forgotten it, or decided it wasn’t that great and it must have been the mood-altering substance writing. I also go to bed every night confident I’m going to work out the next morning. Swear to god, EVERY FUCKING NIGHT, even though that has not been a thing I do since 2014. Fuck, that makes the 30 lbs I’ve gained in less than 3 years very real. Good thing I’m seriously getting a gym membership at Planet Fitness. For $20/mo you can get unlimited use of the massage chairs, and when I went to the facility to check it out, no one was in them, and they had like 8! I honestly expected full chairs, maybe a wait, or at least a signup sheet. Nope, nada. Only one guy using the hydromassage water bed. I don’t even know what that is, but I know I am going to love it.
I should go today because I am really sore from spending 4 hours cleaning and organizing the garage the day before yesterday. No doubt I will blog about hoarding at some point.* Does anyone else’s spouse insist on holding on to over a hundred pounds of a variety of ammunition with the intention of getting guns they will fit in “someday”?
I’ve also had a case of, “I wish I never told anyone about my blog”. Granted, only a handful of people know, but it did seem to hinder my ability to be transparent. However, a brief chat with our friends M&M, and Yuvonna has her groove back. Around here we like to say, “love me some M&M”.
I think MOSTLY though, I’ve been having a case of not being able to decide what to write about without being generic. But that’s fucking absurd. For one, I’m not generic, and even if I was, oh well I guess. What I love most about writing is exploring my thoughts and feelings. It forces me to take a closer look at the things I am saying, and feeling, or doing, and deciding if that’s who I want to be. Not that I want to be anyone else, I probably like myself too much sometimes. I just want to be better. Like, right now, one of the biggest struggles I’ve been dealing with is trying to be less critical. I am critical and skeptical of everything, and everyone. And while that’s probably an exaggeration because I really love people, and am often critical that someone else is being too critical, I wish I could just let shit go.
You know what really makes me feel like shit? When I remember I have no right to judge. Maybe this is why I put myself on a pedestal so much. It’s certainly easier than putting yourself on someone’s level who did something shitty and might remind you of something you did that was shitty. And let’s face it, I’m fucking amazing almost always so why would I do that?
Unfortunately, I’m introspective enough to realize this is the mentality keeping me from being the all-loving saint who only responds with kindness and compassion. Maybe if I carried around a little black book of reasons I’m in no place to pass judgement, it would be a constant reminder I’m not allowed to be critical.
It would read something like this:
1. Fall 1999 – You and Peachy vandalized that guy’s ground floor apartment. Then Peachy lost her pager in the act,
…so to get back at the stranger (whose place you already vandalized) for not answering Peachy’s pages to her own pager to get it back, you forged notes to get out of school, went back to his apartment and you (Yuvonna) shit on his door step while Peachy rubbed jelly donuts all over his window. In broad daylight, and you got caught by the cops. Lest we forget the scolding you got from your dad on the way home who couldn’t fathom how you could be such an idiot considering you were already on probation for stealing a car.
2. Spring 2016 – Rammed your car into the side of Mr. Right’s jeep 3 times, took off, drove three blocks, walked backed to the house barefoot, smashed the window to get in, hid in the closet when you heard Mr. Right come back from driving around looking for you, then hid under the bed when he went back out, then just crawled in bed like nothing happened. And then when your sister came by the next day you refused to answer the door, so she crawled through the tiny broken window, and you still wouldn’t open the bedroom door even when she said, “I just came here to tell you how much you are loved”, and you remained silent, cowered on your bed behind your locked bedroom door.
3. Fall 2002 – Stole your dad’s debit card, dropped your friends off at school telling them you were skipping first period, drove to the Greyhound station in Chicago and got on a bus to L.A. at 17. Remember how your dad was scared to look at you the wrong way for months after that because he was scared you would do something like that again, and might not make is home so safe the second time?
4. Winter 2005 – Fucked your best friends boyfriend in his car blocks from her house while she was passed out in her bed.
Winner, winner, chicken dinner. That’s me! (When I’m not fucking amazing obvi)
Clearly a little black book is not going to do the trick because that is just a taste of the shit coming to mind that I have done and has caused people, many that I love, serious pain and/or distress. Maybe just a pin that says, “you are capable of being a nasty, inconsiderate, weak human being” would suffice?
Furthermore, on the issue of writer’s block and blogging topics, I think a lot of this blocking came from this “oh shit” moment where I realized I started a blog about the LS, and now I don’t know what I want to say, or if what I want to say is worth reading. And that’s bollycocks.** This blog doesn’t have to be labeled as a blog about being in the LS, it’s just my blog, and it will happen to have a lot of LS topics in it. I really, really, enjoy writing and I started this blog because I knew that writing consistently would be beneficial to me. I wouldn’t consider myself a writer. I still have trouble figuring out affect and effect, but I totally get this:
Cause I am a peace-maker and a home-wrecker, forgiving and critical, kind-hearted and revengeful, and sometimes I wonder if I’m people or more closely related to the platypus. Platypuses are super weird, and really fucking amazing.
*In order to save my relationship, I need to clarify that MR. RIGHT IS NOT ACTUALLY A HOARDER. He just likes having things. Often, lots of the same thing. Like 8 gas cans. So if he runs out gas he can buy a 9th one since his collection doesn’t leave the garage. Shit. I totally gave 4 away last summer and he hasn’t noticed yet. But this is a really good example of what I deal with so I don’t want to backspace. He hates when I give his stuff away, and I don’t blame him. Maybe he won’t read this post. Just in case, let me reiterate: he is not a hoarder.
**Just googled that word to see if it’s even real. Pretty sure it’s not, and if it is that isn’t how you use it. Just FYI.