In Which I Rant About Writing and Other Nonsense

I have had this fucking nagging urge to write lately.  It has been driving me totally insane, like an itch I can't scratch or a vague memory of something I forgot to grab before leaving the house.  The problem is I simply don't have anything I can just write, write, write about.  It's all been written, and that's part of the reason that I've basically just been writing variations on the same theme over and over for the last few weeks; that theme, of course, is "here's what I did today, with a smattering of swear words and self-deprecating humor and maybe a photo of my dog's eyebrows."

I've been perusing various blog posts that have whole lists of things to write about, but I wasn't sure how I could sneak in a post about "my most embarrassing moment" or "the hardest decision I ever had to make" and still sound like me and have it be something that anyone would actually want to read.

I thought of writing a how-to post,  but then I realized that I am completely unversed in every single one of the things within the repertoire of what most bloggers write how-tos about.  I don't paint my nails because I end up constantly splaying my fingers out and generally behaving like a dog in a restrictive sweater.  I rarely put forth the effort to put anything on my face minus far too much chapstick. I spontaneously shaved my head two weeks ago so I can't show you the secret to making that top knot that the kids all seem to like. My outfits are mostly comprised of the cleanest items I can most easily locate in my floordrobe within 5 seconds. I have no desire to thrift furniture and varnish it (is that a thing?) so that it looks older than it was to begin with, nor do I even know how you go about doing such a thing (minus haphazard pencil scrawlings and some well-placed chewed gum, maybe?).

FUCKING PICTURE OF CANDLES BECAUSE PICTURES BREAK UP THE TEXT AND MAKE YOU LIKE MY BLERG

I thought of writing about marriage, or anxiety, or depression, or how awkward I am and how my clothes don't fit me anymore because I'm losing weight from stress but this all just the same shit you guys read from me every single post and frankly, I just feel bad doing that to you and annoyed with myself for failing so handily at being creative.

This happens every few months or so, this futile struggle against my own brain and my own fears of inadequacy.  I know the words are in me, but at this point they're floating about uselessly like...I don't fucking know, cereal in milk I guess? DO YOU SEE WHERE MY BRAIN IS RIGHT NOW?!

I guess things have gotten so frustrating that I've resorted to writing about thoughts I have while dish washing or just writing about writing, and here we are, the center of the shrubbery maze that is my dysfunction.   Truly, though, I hope you take this post in the spirit it was intended, and, I don't know, give me some suggestions for content or vicious criticism or something.

I wish you all a magical Tuesday filled with love, light, and delicious grilled cheese sandwiches.