I have great intentions. Really, I do. When it comes to writing, I have the best intentions. It just rarely works out. So that’s we’re at.
I’ve already written this piece today believe it or not. It was better the first time. I inadvertently hit something on the keyboard and lost my fucking work. On any normal day the application would have saved my progress. Not today. So, like I said, it just rarely works out.
I intend to carve out time specifically for the penning out of compelling pieces; cogent arguments detailing my arrival at a stance on an issue and why you should also see the light. My unfulfilled intentions only lead me to want to kill myself or maim someone in the near vicinity.
I feel like I need to add that that was tongue in cheek. Times are fucking dark right now. The last thing I need is someone reading this shit and feeling like they need to check on me. Please don’t. I’ll assume you’re a creditor and send you to voicemail, or that’s what I’ll tell you.
I could sit here and lie to you about all the distractions that take place (and I will) making it impossible for me focus long enough to eek out a shitty blog, or how completely impossible it is for me to keep a death grip on the genius I stumble upon by sheer accident. I could tell you how I’ve sat myself down at least 13 times, determined to write. The reality is, nothing I write is streamlined, nothing I say void of Catholic guilt, and nothing I do is of pure motive. I was born to write; just really poorly and very sporadically.
My husband thinks I’m funny. Bless his heart. I’m not sure if he continues to laugh at my jokes because he truly thinks I’m funny or because he’s afraid I’ll stop putting out. I don’t even think I’m trying to be funny most of the time. That’s just my insecurity shining through. I enjoying bringing joy to others. Usually at the expense of others, but hey, those are the breaks, am I right?
We’ll be having a normal conversation and I’ll say some shit. He’ll laugh hysterically and I’ll think, I’m either really funny, he fucked some other chick, or his bank account is flat again and he knows he’s in trouble – this is nervous laughter.
About that time I’ll formulate some genius thread in my mind. I’ll get halfway through a dope story then the fucking dog does something cute and we’ve re-directed our attention, as a family, to that bitch. Gone. My moment is gone. The dog is a whore and the whole living room is her stage. I’ve been upstaged by an animal that licks her own asshole and vagina. God how I envy her.
There’s also this massive inferiority complex I walk with. I compare myself CONSTANTLY to other writers. Their skill, prowess, and mastery far surpassing my own. It’s not just a little daunting, it’s like being bitch-slapped by your own ego…repeatedly…in front of your friends with your pants down.
What I regularly fail to remember is that I’m not like most of the writers I’m comparing myself to. I don’t give a fuck about being “proper”, nor have I been writing since the earth began cooling. I don’t spend hours writing and I never have a “plan” – I just type. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to get pulled away from my thoughts by the plethora of distractions I allow for.
- Oh, hey, the dishes aren’t going to put themselves away!
- Why not go for another run?
- I’m bored, food sounds legit.
- Are you watching this fucking cat right now?!
- Do we know if domestic animals get gout? I should Google that.
- It’s not really string cheese is it? More like ribbon. Re-brand!
- Tidy Cats is a misnomer. They still fling that shit everywhere.
- Can we please ban flesh colored leggings? Finally?
- What else are we going to market as Milk? Aren’t we at 46 varieties?
- Who is common-core really common to? As a newly formal teacher, I have questions.
- Why the fuck can I still not find Clorox wipes?!
- Masks are worn OVER your noses you dumb motherfuckers! FFS, you’re wearing it, might as well wear it correctly.
- Wearing a mask in your own car, alone. Why? I have questions.
So. Many. Distractions. So many reasons not to write. The best reason I have found, so far, not to write is fear.
Fear that my voice is too loud. That it’s not loud enough. I can’t say the right thing. I’ll offend someone, or I won’t offend someone. Stick to the easy shit, I tell myself. Tell them about your day, your dog, your fucking shoes. Whatever you do, don’t tell them that you’re pissed off and scared.
Don’t mention how you’re torn, wanting to protest and wanting to keep your job. Why should those two be mutually exclusive? When you work for a small business that is openly right-wing, it most certainly is. At the very least, I would be ensuring my work experience moving forward be most unpleasant. It stands to reason that my home would be in jeopardy not long after. Mortgage don’t pay itself. BUT, I AM ANGRY.
I marched during the #metoo movement. Middle-aged white men really didn’t have dick to say about that one. The men in my office would take issue with my protesting now. They would say I was just given time off, I should have used it more wisely. They would say my being there won’t change anything, that this “whole thing” is overblown. For the record, working from home during stay-at-home orders is NOT time-off. For clarification: when you say, “this whole thing is overblown” your fucking privilege shows and it’s disgusting.
I’m not here to badmouth my coworkers. I’m truly not here to call them out on their privilege. I’m done pointing that out to them; it falls on deaf ears. If holding them, and others of that ilk, up to the light is a byproduct of me getting some shit off my chest, so be it. I’m done being afraid and quiet. Done worrying about if what I have to say is good enough. Meaningful enough. Funny enough. Clever.
I’m angry, scared, ashamed, and in a lot of ways uneducated. There. I said it. It’s your turn. Are you humble enough to admit where you stand? Are you teachable?