The below is what happens in my brain after I haven’t posted in a few days. Every day the intention is to post. With a new full-time gig, a pending house purchase, and a god awful commute, finding the time has been a struggle. Hopefully, you will enjoy the neurosis that is my brain brought to the page.
Day 1: Okay, I’ll post this morning. I have a lot of ideas. Can’t wait to write. But, I only have 45 minutes before work. Should I write some stuff for twitter instead? Dear god, when will I find the time to twitter? My twitter can not go cold! Cold twitter is like cold sake! Wait, that’s not so bad.
Day 2: Okay, didn’t post yesterday. Today is the day. I’ll do it during lunch.
Lunchtime on Day 2: Boss just handed me a crushing workload. It seems just as I’m working through the list, the list grows. Maybe I can write and drive. You can write and drive a car, right? That’s not the same as texting and driving, right? Will Oprah hate me? I don’t want Oprah to hate me.
Day 3: I’ve got to get this post out. I want to write about my blog being dead. I also want to write about attempting to buy a house. I also want to write about Boston. I also want to write about that time I stubbed my toe and it led to a deep philosophical talk with myself. I have tons of ideas. I’ll get to them tomorrow.
Day 4: Am I not dedicated enough? I’m writing these twitter jokes at 630am. That’s the problem. Mary Higgins Clark got up and wrote every day between 4am – 8am. I need to get up earlier.
Day 5: Up at 4am. Ugh, the dogs are up too. The puppy won’t stop biting the older dog in the ass. He thinks it’s funny. He bites it and then he runs away. He’d do this all day if I let him. Maybe the puppy is a metaphor for the world and I am the older dog. World, please stop biting me in the ass.
Missed another day writing. Can’t be the dog peacemaker and get a post out. Excuses, excuses, excuses.
Day 6: I need to telecommute. How does one turn a regular job into a telecommuting gig? Maybe I’ll tell them I’m pregnant. I’ll have to start stuffing my shirt. I could seriously do all of this work from home. Hell, I’d get 2.5 hours back in commute time alone. They’ll never go for it. Ugh, spent writing time googling, “How to turn your job into a telecommute position.” It never ends.
Day 7: Wifesy wants to go look at houses. That’s what I need an office. An office where I can shut the door, in a real house, that would solve the problem. Dear god, so expensive. I’ll never be able to stop working. That’s okay, I need to work. I also need to write. Maybe I need a rich benefactor. Didn’t Monet have one of those? Why do I feel like my benefactor would want fetish pictures of my feet next to watermelons? It’s just a feeling I have. Okay, no foot fetish benefactor. Sigh.
Day 1: Feck! I went an entire week without writing. What does this say about me? My work? My life? Will I ever create again? Have I become just another cog in the corporate wheel? No, everyone has to take care of their responsibilities. Me, included. I’ll tell you one positive thing, when you stop writing for a week or so – the spammers add your blog in mass. I think I’ve gained a couple hundred followers in spam/ fake accounts within mere weeks. Hello, Spammers! Welcome! And thank you for increasing my numbers. Mind you, I’m still not going to approve your nonsensical comments.
Day 2: I WROTE TODAY! I WROTE TODAY! I wrote about this blog being dead. Now, when am I going to find the time to publish this thing? And feck, I’ve got to find some pictures. Well, there’s always tomorrow if I just can’t get it done today. Wait…
A note from Sweet Mother: Well, I suppose all of the above has been a note from Sweet Mother. (tee, he) Just wanted to let you all know I’m alive. (Meeks, thank you, in particular, for asking.) Still working out a way to find the time for it all and failing most of the time. But, as Day 2 of Week 2 says, “There’s always tomorrow.” Hope you all are well and thriving. Mother.
If you’d like to take a stroll through the writings of Sweet Mother, please check out the “Read More Sweet Mother” section.