Do you remember when I used to babble here sporadically? Yeah me either.
Have you ever had writers block? Idea block, word block, cock block. They pretty much all feel the same.
I was laid off last week. Oy. Too much free time has lead me to start a bullet journal, go to the dentist, raise a plant named Stan, make beet hummus, take 6 barre classes and somehow still avoid 9 loads of my own laundry. It’s been a really exciting 10 days, 12 hours aannnnd 18 minutes.
So back to the cock block that is my “writing”. I have mentioned to a handful of people, in a very dramatic way, that I’m at a precipice in this giant life of mine. Do I continue down the path of living in jcrew clothes while eating takeout at my desk and wondering if someday I will crack and finally rob a taco truck? Or do I get real, dig in and become a writer, perhaps a teacher, definitely a certified badass who doesn’t have to steal tacos. One friend casually and by casually I mean quite pointedly observed that writers write and he hadn’t seen me write anything in a looooonnnngggg time.
He may have a point. (Insert hard side eye here)
There have been things to say big and small but by the time I stopped to write them down I had talked myself out of them being important enough. Instead I instagrammed them or texted them to a select few or worse started the first sentence and then contemplated who may or may not see what I had written and they may or may not like it and that may or may not land me in hot water.
Today somewhere between making an inappropriate swallowing joke at the dentist and buying my second bullet journal I decided to say fu*k it. If you don’t like what I have to say don’t read it, if you don’t like what I have to say and it’s about you, well perhaps you should have been nicer. If you love what I have to say and think I should have free tacos for life raise your hand or leave a comment below. I’m back family, rusty as fu*k but back.