And that annoys the piss out of me.
See, I have all of this stuff I want to write about, but the people-pleasing control freak/coward deep inside of me always screams "STOP! You'll ________ and it's going to __________ you/loved one/random stranger you don't even know!!!"
I mean, the internet's a dangerous place to leave your thoughts. Especially if you're not doing it in complete anonymity. And while I have no problem discussing politics/religion/sex/race and ethnicity/insert your taboo of choice here face-to-face with respectful, intelligent people, I know what would happen if, for example, I used this blog to regularly tell my liberal friends to quit stupidly spending tax dollars that MY great-grandchildren haven't even handed over and my conservative friends where to shove their need to legislate based on their loose and warped interpretations of Judeo-Christian values. And I don't want that.
Turns out I have an unhealthy aversion to chaos... inviting it upon myself via thoughtless blogging would make this entire exercise pointless.
Unfortunately, my desire to have a thoughtful discussion with myself and anyone else who cares to engage me occasionally has turned into a charade wherein I talk myself out of every idea I've got and am left staring into a Sunday night slow-cooker full of pot roast and wondering if I've got what it takes to spin that into a story worthy of posting.
LAME-O-RAMA!
My biggest problem is that I don't do anything worth memorializing. I have a job that I find incredibly interesting, but which requires extreme confidentiality on my part. I cook, but it's standard fare. I get bored with crafts so easily that I'm still trying to finish the dishtowel I started crocheting almost 3.5 years ago when my MIL taught me the basics over Christmas. I gave up music for reasons that I should probably be discussing with a therapist once a week. I have an on-again-off-again relationship with all things fitness related that is currently off-again. And I'm one of those ridiculous people that has pets instead of babies because I'm too scared to have kids, and either way, filling a blog with one or both of those subjects is... how do I say this without sounding judgmental?... for a very specific audience that usually only includes one's closest friends and family.
Yeah, you didn't know that no one else but you, your parents, your best friends, and your eternally single older cousin who has taken up living vicariously through you and all her other younger relatives cares about your dog/ferret/parakeet/baby belly/gender-determining ultrasound photos/adventures in potty training?
Sorry. I have a real problem resisting the urge to write reality checks when they're deserved.
And it's that urge that brought me back to blogging. I need a reality check or four(teen thousand). I am a nightmare of faux-composure right now, and my mind's wound tighter than an eight day clock.
My husband can tell you that when I'm stressed, the pressure tends to escape from me in little bursts of ridiculousness. I make up songs about our animals. I dance like a suburban white frat boy with epilepsy. I say the most absurd things for no reason at all.
This blog is supposed to be for my songs, my dancing, and my pointless absurdities. It's also supposed to be about all of the things that lead me to sing, dance and be absurd.
It's just hard.
And yes, I self-censored this the entire time I was writing it.
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