Words Words Words

When you sit and try to write to old friends after a really long time it’s a daunting task. And you are friends of a sort. I’ve shared my darkest moments and my triumphs with you and I’ve shared some of your darks and dawns as well. And we’ve all fallen off the radar at one time or another. Some of us because we had real life happening- we had adulting to do and adulting gets in the way every time. Some of us were opening new chapters in our lives, and that chapter didn’t include the space that was created here. Maybe it was a new space, maybe there was no space for “us” at all. That’s okay. Who am I to judge your lives? I hope you aren’t judging mine. I’ve sat at this keyboard (a totally different iteration than the little netbook at the beer bar of old) a good 25 times and tried to write a love letter or a holiday update or just a funny postcard and gotten no where.  It’s too late for a New Years update… That would be forced and awkward. A ketsup post would just drone on and on and insult you. Frankly I don’t think either of us wants that. So where do I start? What do I say to tell you I’ve missed you and I want you and I have things to say that you want to hear… 

Do I just launch into a tirade about the current political bullshit (and by bullshit I mean Trump, in case you forgot who I was) or do I talk about the retarded zealous parents who think they are making informed decisions by are not vaccinating their children (yes, this is still relevant)? Do I give in to the desire to throw verbal shitbags at the fucktards and their ridiculous over the top 2nd Amendment insanity? Do I go postal on the wing nuts that are literally shortening our collective lifespan as a species by plowing through acres and acres of rain forest a day? Hell not just our species but all the species! Or do I forget for a moment that human beings are completely fucked and talk about how awesome my life is. After several years in a hole of crazy coworkers (we are talkin batshit, not just “a bit off” but completely fucking nutter) and under appreciation, bad meds, weight gain and loss (let’s be real, mostly gain), and a lot of uncertainty to be sure… I am in a good place. I am more happy than sad, more loved than lost, more up than down. I think this has definitely caused some creative frustration. Let’s be real, wait… I hate that phrase… I’m calling myself out on using it because if I’m not being real what the fuck am I doing???? So let me restart that: It’s pretty clear from studies by actual doctors and observation of my own past practices (you miss me talkin out my ass.. admit it!!) that depression and trauma breed creativity. At least they do in my case. So I’ve been stunted. Add to that the fact that people I sometimes write about in a not so favorable way have figured out that I sometimes write about them… in a not so favorable way, and you have a constantly blank screen. 

So here I sit with words words words. After weeks of pondering how to start, fuck it. I am just going to. I’ll start with a short list of things that I’m pretty sure of. Some of them may be different than the last time I listed things and some may be the same, I’ll leave it to you to do the homework.

I’m pretty sure that…

… I love my nephew more every time I see him and I didn’t think that was possible

… As Aunt’s go, I am the best. 

… I didn’t realize how life changing It would be to have met my female soulmate, my yang, my forever friend

… for the first time in my life my ratio of friends tips more to the female than the male side

… I don’t know how I feel about that 

… Turning 40 has had more positives than negatives, especially the wine thing, I love the wine thing

… Beer is proof that Gus loves us and wants us to be happy

… adult coloring books have always been around, we just didn’t like crayons, so someone decided to sell one with colored pencils or markers and now… $$$$

… Uggs with a skirt is still not okay

… My job is kick ass and I am awesome at it… I may talk about that a lot more, as I’m trying to decide whether Bourbon or Vodka is better

… I can’t decide if I like Bourbon or Vodka better so I just bring both to the party… It’s one of the many Gemini perks

… Bacon still wins

… yep, still not okay

… Donald Trump is a fucking idiot 

… Pot should be legal. I don’t use it (smoke it, whatever) but I think it would help in so many ways

… Technology has made us retarded for real and shortened our attention- LOOK! A Squirrel!

… I love any kind of music except, poppy country, something that tells me to rape my sister (cringe) and fucking Nickelback. I will take Creed over Nickelback, maybe, shit. Can I stab my eardrums out?

… anyone that would vote for Donald Trump is a bigger fucking idiot

…. I have a lot to say about a lot of things and I will

… Clowns are creepy

… anyone that reads my posts and would vote for Trump should send me a very detailed email about why and expect a very expletive filled response about why those reasons are so not enough

… I should post this shit already so I can move on to the next topic

breaker one-nine come back, over

Tonight I’m trying to get the thoughts to flow onto the page. I’m sitting at the pub, listening to my favorite DJ’s The Ideals spin sixties vinyl. The pub has overwhelming amounts of inspiration but nothing I can fit into a lovely little flow. Maybe my expectations are too high and I shouldn’t expect my first real post in more than a year to be some epic soliloquy. I shouldn’t expect myself to be able to capture all that’s happened in my life the first time I sit down.

But I want to. I want all the ridiculously funny shit that has happened in the last howeverlong to just spill out as if I had never been blocked. Speaking of blocked… what the eff yo? I feel like my creative process is as dry as the sahara. Though it is not for lack of material… I have spent the last year and a half herding cats, I mean babysitting, I mean playing mom working with truckers. actual truckers.

Before you say ‘oh that sounds like fun’ bite your fucking tongue. really. Being responsible for let’s see… 40 tons x 12… um a lot, no a shitload, no a metric shit ton… as it rolls along at 7mpg (maybe, if we’re having a good day) is stressful. Making sure the drivers trips can be done within their D.O.T. regulated hours and that they are not exhausted is stressful. Taking their eleventeen hundred phone calls a day because they had to sit at a dock for two hours or someone cut in front of them on the 405 while they were doing 45 is stressful. It is like being mother to 12 grown-ass-men who all need your attention but, like most children, don’t simply say ‘hey I’m a little stressed here, can we talk for a few?’ they call and complain. But… I loved it. I loved my job. I loved my truckers. I loved that they respected me and counted on me and needed me. I miss them terribly. Maybe that’s why it is so hard to let the horrible, awesome, funny, ridiculous stories flow. Maybe it’s why I am sitting at the pub on a Thursday night writing about them. And maybe it’s why I am not ready to move forward to the next step. I need time. I need to grieve. I need to decide if I want to go through all that comes with the responsibility of caring as much as I do.

Sometimes, it’s just like that… you have a stressful, crazy job that you think is gonna be the death of you until it’s gone. And you miss the stressful craziness of it all.

HI-Larry-US!

I know I’ve said it a hundred times.. but I don’t want children. (spare me a lecture, I’m almost 40, I know I don’t want them) This may be an awesome shining example of why. Also, I love Louis CK. He makes me laugh and can pull me out of a funk faster than Xanax or Booze (though sometimes… kidding). To that end, I apologize in advance that this is a clip from the youtubes but will shamelessly plug that you can buy his newest vid for only $5 and download it right to your happy lil compy at home. I’ve seen it, and it is also funny.

But as I was saying… I don’t want to be a parent. Thanks Louie…

[youtube]http://youtu.be/s120QJv6Ikg[/youtube]

this is not about you

If you build it, they will come….
If you sit and stare at it, words will appear…

That should work right? Okay lack of words is not the problem, it’s too many swirling in my head and not really knowing how to string them together in some coherent way that someone other than myself may want to read. Then again, is that the point? Well, it seems it’s become the point and that may be my issue. I seem to have lost that abandon with which I used to approach my writing. Back then I would sit at some random place with some random beer and write (yes with a pen) the skeleton of what would become my next blog. I continued writing merrily when the pen gave way to the portability of a 15# brick of a laptop. During the brick era is when I found I had readers. I panicked a little (someone reads my shit???) but trudged on affording protection to the guilty, only because I myself wished to remain anonymous. And then all shit hit the fan. I found out family read my shit. Maybe not regularly, maybe not even often, but they did.

well fuck.
The words in my head ceased to allow themselves out through my fingers. And before you say at least had a journal… uh no, the words weren’t hap-nin there either.

well fuck.
Periodically I’d be inspired by something and sorta safe writing would happen. I’d even had a brief reprieve from the verbal constipation while I changed up all my psych meds and had no filter (not a chance bitches, don’t even think it… you shut your pie hole or I will cut you). And on occasion I can still tap into that filter-less freedom. But not often.

Do you realize that when you write a blog it is basically a journal to which you’ve given the world a key. Like it or not anyone… that’s EH-KNEE-ONE can stumble upon your shit or troll for your shit if they really want. Even the most careful person leaves behind crumbs that someone could follow (note you’ve never seen my face and I’ve never said anyone’s name. And no, my parents were not angry activists or suffering from a trauma leaving their tongues partially paralyzed causing them to think hey… sars is a good name for a girl.). So when you start venting about your sister-cousin and her giant goiter… if she can operate her nubbin, she can read your shit. And when you got pissed because you had to lance mama’s boil for the sixth time because she didn’t want the hawt young Dr. Thibodaux to see she’d put on “some weight”… If she can get uncle LeRoy to show her how to find “Dr. Oz on the computer thang”, she can read your shit. Thus I filter. Though I have no sister-cousin or Uncle LeRoy, I do have this ‘I’m not catholic’ “Catholic Guilt” that plagues me. It tells me if I write about my mom or sister or a friend in a not so glowing light, they will read it and be offended. (They probably just felt me type that and will know they have to check my blog) I could just be good ‘ol fashioned venting, but they’ll never know and think it’s something different. And since my anonymity is shot there – my family and friends know who I am… ugh.

So I filter.
well fuck.
At this moment I have a head full of things ready to tumble out but I filter. BUTT… (that was a big butt for those still playing) I have things to say. Things I want, need to say.

I have touched on having a behavioral health disorder (the preferred term around here – I honestly don’t give a fuck what you call it, as long as after you find out you still call me friend) that has been “classified” Bipolar II (and even then, that is a label more for insurance than me). Basically (the super dumb version) is depression with periods of “hypomania” or not quite mania. For me this is linked to anxiety. (yay!) This is a tough topic to broach sometimes as there are those that don’t understand because its all “psycho-babble mumbo jumbo”. And when writing, I don’t preface with: ‘Warning this blog contains bipolar content or mom look away, I’m talkin’ about being fucking nutter right now!’ However, it gets across in a roundabout way sorta. Because I filter the fuck out of things when I am cycling instead of embracing the moment and letting my filter go. According to my besties, I am my funniest, do my best writing when I am anxious. Lots of jokes get made about being bipolar – I make jokes about being a Gemini and bipolar, but the reality is I got off easy because mania is a bitch. I will cut my tangent short here and save it for a depressed day.

Basically what I’m saying is my filter is clogged and I don’t want to pressure wash it. As Zimm said, I’d have to wring it out because you can’t stick that shit in the dryer it won’t fit anymore! So, I’m just gonna leave it at the curb. Let the er Engineers take it with them along with all the other waste. Filter-less writing is better writing.

Sometimes it’s just like that… you have to apologize in advance to the people you love because your intent is not to hurt their feelings. But you just need to say what you need to say, even though you have made clear before “if you don’t like it, don’t read my shit”. This time – it’s a pointed warning. So here it is, and you may never see it again:

 

~posted from my tablet thingy~

[youtube]http://youtu.be/TLjrD-oXkhA[/youtube]