Image via Pixababy | Victoria_Borodinova
Hey, all ten of you that read this blog. I realized that a lot of the things I was trying to do are for people that already have a level of fame that allows them to do special projects. I find that perhaps the best way to become the writer I want to be, is to just write. And write. Maybe someone will read it, but maybe (probably) not. I have to be okay with either situation. And, I suppose, that’s the gamble any writer has to take.
We have to take ourselves seriously, but not so seriously that we think we will be famous. At some point you have to just write because you like to write. We are allowed to like to write.
Every so often I come across a situation in my daily life that I really want to write a Facebook post about. Facebook is this weird “safe space” for me still — I know lots of people that are Insta or Snap or Twitter only these days. Not that I am saying Facebook is retro in someway (it is, come back), it just is a more “blog” style version of social media than others. Facebook doesn’t require you to condense your entire being into X amount of characters or filters. You can be a more real version of yourself, if you choose. The only other places this can potentially happen is YouTube or Blog — you can always be whoever you want on the internet, but there are places to go that will allow you to be more you, if that’s what you choose.
My life seems messy to me. The very best friend often asks me if I am sure we don’t live in a sitcom. No, I am not sure. And No, it is not fun.
The following story takes place at Safeway, during pre-evening. All three small humans behaved amazingly, I was suspicious right away. I catalogued the type of day I had as a working-at-home-but-the-kids-are-STILL-on-summer-break type of day.
It was fine.
Also, I did buy the damn chocolate chunk cookies at the stupid pedestal at the check stand, not because the kids wanted it, but because I did. I also bought emergency tequila. It lives with the emergency butter. And if you don’t have emergency stash of either, I am worried and when can I drop you some butter?
Not the point.
In the checkout line, J began to beat the coin holder thing as though it were a drum. I exclaimed “No, pal! Do NOT do that, no one likes it.” And the cashier goes, “OH! I remember you!” And I just was like, fuck. What did I say or do the last time, that someone Remembers me? Insert a large amount of stress on top of the stress I carry daily.
Sometimes I feel like I look and act like a hot mess. Sometimes I feel like I look and act like I am okay. Sometimes I feel like I look like both of those things and everyone is low key laughing because they all know IT’S GOING TO BE OKAY. But a lot of the days, I don’t think it’s going to be okay. At least the patio was not on fucking fire.
There are a lot of things that I worry about and there are a lot of things I am failing about. But at the end of the longest week of Mondays I have ever had, at least we have butter and tequila. Just in time for a new week of Mondays.
We are five months done with deployment four.
Four months to go.