peevish mama

Uncle. I miss this blog. The little hiatus I’ve taken in order to move the blog has been no good. For starters, there has been a marked spike in my cussin’, notwithstanding my resolution, because I have nowhere to write shit fuck shit ass ho mother fucker piece of shit asswipe fucker jackass dick ass mother fucking mother fucker ass face. It has left me sitting in my hands, feeling helpless and dubious that moving the blog is actually going to work. While Rip Van Techno stokes his mojo to get me set up, I sit around and cheese myself out. And curse.

I’ve had all sorts of time to determine that there is really no point to this, that I am totally full of shit, that my writing voice is annoying and nasally, that I’m a show-off, that my flagrant exploitation of ellipses underscores what a lazy, careless, charmless writer I really am. Gag me with a spoon. Why bother? Why? Why? Trite drivel. Honeyed clichés. And is there, God help me, is there ever any smugness? I HATE smug. It’s really the only thing I hate. And I worry. Was I ever smug? Even for a few seconds? Maybe? Oh God. That’s it. No more. Spare us. Please. Beg. Total shite.

And then Red Vogue sends me an email. A tentacle from across the creek. She tells me she misses my blog. Oh jeez. Really? And then Crackerjack gives me a huge pep talk last night at the bar, only she doesn’t even know it’s a pep talk – I just chug my beer and hear it as a pep talk because I’m such a pathetic desperado. She misses my blog. Really? Oh sweetness, thank you. Because, the truth is, I miss it too.

I had forgotten why I started. I had lost sight of the founding principles. Aim low, sweet chariot – coming for to carry me home . . .

This was supposed to be for me. Not you. It was supposed to be a risk. Not safe. It was supposed to be an experiment. Not a success. It was supposed to be vulnerable and raw. Not polished and perfect. It was supposed to make me write. Not stew and doubt. It was supposed to bring me peace. Not notoriety. I never intended to make you read. I never intended to make this good. I had forgotten that this is nothing. This is a lark. This is a low stakes game – a no stakes game. It doesn’t matter. It’s just a little exercise wheel for my brain. Shallow, silly. A crunchy nothing shell with a creamy something center.

I’m not bombarding you with carrier pigeons clutching my folded up musings. I’m not sending clowns or strippers to read you my thoughts. You come here. Of your own free will. To my messy house. There’s shit everywhere. If you’re willing to pick your way through the garbage, you’re welcome to take a seat on the couch – put your feet up. Move all those toys. I love that you’re here. I cannot express how much. Thank you. I love you. And if it ever gets annoying – if I ever cheese you out – just let yourself out the back.