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Sunday
Dec112011

Dark at Five

Mud Island, Memphis. From the roof.

I will not write a post about how I can't think of anything to write.

I will not write a post about how I can't think of anything to write.

I will not write a post about how I can't think of anything to write.

Too late.

Maybe you know what it feels like to create, too.  To offer up.  To show. To produce.  To teach.

Sometimes, you get busy thinking that you're making stuff (writing) that you forget to look around and check to make sure that you're actually making stuff (writing) and when you do, you're all, "HOLY... what the... I must've taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque (I'm not writing and I miss Looney Toons) ."

You have money in your pocket, but no words on your paper.

And then you get more confused because you look at people who are chasing their dreams down with such intensity that they seem dispassionate to every other thing and you think... what?

Is that how you get what you really want?

Just tune everything else... every one else out?

I don't want that, but I have something I want to achieve and it's kind of big.  It's not like a little thing.  I mean, not that anyone's thing that they want to achieve is little.  But mine is especially not little.

Everyone you love deserves to feel like they're a priority. Sometimes like they're the priority. You can tell when they don't feel like they're a priority, too, can't you?  Because they pretend to cry because they can't eat lollipops for breakfast or because they climb a makeshift ladder of pilows and footstools and start throwing brown rice all over the floor or because they make a snide comment that they insist has nothing to do with this issue, but you're just sure it does.

That's when I feel I have to pick between them and the thing, but I don't want to pick. But I feel like I have to because last year I promised myself I'd write 4000 words a week, and I'm only writing about 450.

Is this the place that you see in movies and hear about when you're a teenager?

The place where you decide?  Where you either become Jimi Hendrix or a middle school music teacher?  Which is a TOTALLY GREAT JOB because even though he died a legend, Jimi Hendrix did, in fact, choke on his own puke which is just, let's face it, highly undesirable.

And this kind of underlines my point.  You have to choke on your own vomit to be great?  Who writes these rules?  I have issues with these rules.  They are stupid rules.  Plus they are gross.

Truth is, I don't "sort of" do anything, and I feel very out of my element in this deciding place.  I feel like I'm "sort of" here and "sort of" there. I "sort of" have things to write, but the real thing is... is "sort of"even worth a big ball of tears, brown rice crunching under your feet for weeks and an argument you just don't feel like having one more time?

I don't know if it's worth it or not, but I don't know how to stop wanting to write and I don't know how to stop feeling frustrated when I don't but I hate the sound of (expensive) brown basmati rice crunching under my feet.


It's so crap, as the British say, that I have to "sort of" do anything.

But that's "the job," right?

Right?

So. Yeah. Dreams.  Pursuit. Stuff.  Money.  Family. People.

I don't know.

Also.

It gets dark here at like 5p.m.

I'm sorry, but that's just ridiculous.
Saturday
Dec062008

I'm sick and tired.

No, really.  I'm sick.  And I'm tired.

Physically.

So, this will be a lazy post in which I link to some of the cool stuff in my reader that you might enjoy or that revolves specifically around me.

WHAT?!

EVERYBODY ELSE DOES IT.  WHY CAN'T I?

  • I was on Karl's show this past Thursday.  I was fabulous and awesome.  The way I talked about my brother (the doctor), $30 shaving cream and Harry Potter was absolutely riveting.  If you didn't get a chance to hear it, you can still download it.  I'm Episode 15.  Oh, and come to think of it maybe it's best to ignore how much I talk about Harry Potter.  That was pretty dorky in retrospect.

  • Adnan read a poem on his blog this week.  You can read it here.  It'll take you thirty seconds.  Just go.  It's really good.  I think so, anyway.

  • B.E. Earl has a trivia thing going on over at his blog.  If you look over in the upper far right of his blog, you'll see something like "Bug Eyed Trivia Challenge."  Click there and play.  I would link to it, but it seems as though it's "private."  I always suspected he was something of an elitest.  Anyway, I'm really tired of being in last place all the time.  Maybe one of you will take the fall and purposely miss a bunch of questions to boost my self esteem.

  • Slyde just found out Kanye West thinks that George Bush hates black people.  And he seems really upset.  Still, I never actually saw that for myself, so I'm glad he posted it.  The look on Mike Meyers face is priceless, and I've really been looking for good reasons to shame my husband for downloading Kanye onto our iTunes account.  The best part of the post, though, is in the comment section when Slyde and Earl rib each other about said post.  Feels like dinner with my parents.

  • Britt posted a really nice photo of me on Miss Britt in Pictures.  There aren't nearly enough comments about how gorgeous it is.  Feel free to contribute.

  • Last Sunday, I got snacked on at Dawg's place.  I want to thank the Academy...oh, wait, this is waaay better than getting one of those.  My favorite part of this post was surprisingly NOT the part where he talks about me, but where he explains the rules of the award.  And how if you e-mail him or ask him to feature you... oh, just go read it.  (Eye roll). Oh, fine, please.


And this concludes this edition of.. this specific post.

Did I mention I'm sick?

(Cough, cough).

And tired?

(Yawn).