Something like that.

You know that sucks?

Knowing that something isn't right. Knowing that you cause each other more hurt than good and making the intensely difficult choice to walk away. Knowing that you can love and hate someone at the very same time. Having to block someone from being able to contact you because you know if you see it it will kill you. Constantly unblocking them to see if and when they tried to contact you. Trying to move on and not being able to. Seeing them write the words they are in love with someone else and feeling like every organ in your body aside from your tear ducts have stopped working.

Knowing you deserve better than to be constantly reminded of every mistake you'd ever made or shortcoming you had yet still not being able to imagine your life without someone even though being with them was slowly killing you. Knowing you are doing everything you can to make your life better and feeling empty. Feeling like you don't deserve anything better than the hell you've been put through. Feeling like you'll never be good enough. Knowing you need to keep doing what you're doing even though it's hard and trying to be optimistic that something good will come of it.

Yeah. Something like that.

The Difference Between Freedom of the Press and the Tact and Class to not Glorify a Terrorist.

I am all for freedom of the press. I don't think people should be restricted in their opinions or what they want to write, HOWEVER I think that Rolling Stone could have used a little more common sense in the wake of something so tragic. You want the article inside? Great. You want to use that picture? Go nuts, but does that monster deserve the cover? No way in fucking hell.

The cover of Rolling Stone is a coveted and earned honor. To date the most controversial covers have been usually full of nude and strategically posed celebrities. Charles Manson has been the only criminal who made the cover, well before social media shoved it down our throats every 3 seconds on someone's newsfeed. (Well, Roman Polanski could also be counted as a criminal, but he was certainly not a terrorist)

The people of Boston and overall the Commonwealth of Massachusetts are expressing hurt and outrage that 3 months after the tragic events at the finish line of the Boston Marathon Rolling Stone is seeming to glorify a terrorist. That the are showing Dzhokhar Tsarnaev as a heart throb teenager and making it look as though he was not in fact responsible for his actions. That he was this all his family's fault. Because at 19 he clearly had no control over his actions and mindset, right? Bullshit.

I get it Rolling Stone, I get that you wanted to write an article to find answers to questions that have been plaguing the people of Boston for 3 months. How did this happen? Why did this happen? What could have caused a 19 year old to built a weapon designed for mass murder and mayhem? We want those answers too, but we have not once attempted to empathize or sympathize with a man who killed 4 innocent people and maimed over 250 others.

As a lifelong resident of Massachusetts, having grown up exactly 17.31 miles from the Boston Marathon finish line, I have always known people who have run. People who went to watch. People who had family and friends run. One of my best friends sister's crossed the finish line within minutes of the bomb going off (thankfully she was uninjured). My little cousin was there with friends from college watching and thankfully decided at the last minutes to NOT watch at the finish line but farther down the route.

Sure, people around the country and even the world saw the events as they unfolded on the news. Sure they felt awful and the outpouring of support was amazing. The people of Massachusetts banded together in such a way that the term "Boston Strong" became a nationwide moniker for how we handled the turmoil around us.

Everyone saw the horrific pictures of people like Jeff Bauman being wheeled through the clouds of smoke, the arteries in his now missing legs being tenderly held by his rescuer Carlos Arredondo as they raced to get him medical attention. Everyone saw the AP photos and video footage that peppered every media outlet in the aftermath.

What the rest of the country didn't see was what the people of Massachusetts saw daily.

My sister lives in Watertown, the town that was on lock down and ultimately where this little fucker was caught hiding in a boat in David Henneberry's backyard. She had armed tactical officers knock on her door. The streets were lined with armored vehicles slowly cruising down it. They were not allowed to leave their homes. She heard the gunshots a couple streets over from where she lives.

I sat on the edge of my seat watching as things unfolded, listening to the police scanners and calling my sister to make sure she was ok and no where near what was happening. She WAS near. Safely in her home yes, but near enough to hear the gun battle that ensued between Rolling Stone's cover boy and the Watertown and State Police.

Dzhokhar Tsarnaev is not a rockstar and should not be treated as such. He should not be given the privilege of what so many actual musicians and celebrities aspire for by getting the cover of Rolling Stone. He should not be made a martyr for young extremists the world over. He is a terrorist. His face should adorn a post office wanted poster not be plastered all over pop culture as an icon on newsstands across the globe.

There is a difference between freedom of the press and having the tact and class to not glorify a terrorist.

You want a cover photo? Try one of these 20 options I so graciously put together for you:

Ashton Kutcher is Hiding in My Head

Another 4 days gone and my slacker ass is doing what it does best. Slacking.

I spent the weekend peeling like Goldmember in an Austin Powers movie. My 4th of July sunburn apparently k=just isn't ready to stop annoying the shit out of me yet. Not sure why exactly it takes your skin so long to turn reptilian and shed itself, but it's itchy and annoying and making my post-sunburn tan look more like vitiligo than an even golden brown.

In any event, here are the last few days of my challenge, as slackingly promised.


Day 12:
Share: Your Bucket List

Um, I don't necessarily have a bucket list. Not an official one anyway. I suppose this would be the time to now instantly come up with some crap I want to do before I die, huh?

Ok, so I would like to go somewhere that requires a passport before I die. I know you now need one for Mexico and even Canada, which is just plain weird since I went to both countries before that was a rule. I want to go somewhere that is not attached to the United States. I mean technically I guess I go to Martha's Vineyard a lot and that's an island so not technically attached, but I basically live on Cape Cod and I don't think that counts.

I want to go someplace tropical, I want to go to Europe. I think I can do without Asia having once again recently watched Bridget Jones and fearing that my naivete may also wind me up in some sort of Tibetan prison due to some random person trying to use my awesomeness to try to smuggle something funky out of the country. You all know my luck. NOT on bucket list is to end up in a Tibetan prison. Or any prison for that matter. Not my idea of a good time.

I would like to finally finish my degree before I die. It's been like a 15 year journey, and I am certainly in no rush but I would like to finally hold that piece of paper (silly you pay so much money for a piece of paper after all) proudly and tell the world to bite me. Well, maybe not the entire world, but those who may or may not have made me feel like it wasn't possible.

I want to get married someday (stop laughing). It sucks that my dad isn't around to witness it, but I want to. I want the white dress (again, stop laughing!!) and the whole "Oh my god she looks so beautiful!" reactions as I emerge from whatever door I'll be popping out of. I want to register for fabulous gifts that other people will lovingly (or annoyingly...tomato) pick out for me from a carefully selected assortment of things to start my new life off with Mr. Wonderful right. (and not Mr. Wonderful from Shark Tank, ew)

I may even want another kid. (who are we kidding right?)

Most of all I want to be happy. I want to know what it's like to not live paycheck to paycheck. I want to live drama free. Well, sort of. I think we all need a little drama to make things exciting, but I don't want BAD drama. I don't want vindictive, I don't want hurtful. I want happy. I want love. Unconditional, passionate, silly, ridiculous, real love. I don't want a pissing match, I don't want a tit-for-tat. I want to argue sure, because arguing is cathartic sometimes, but I don't want drag out nasty anything anymore. I don't want to be made to feel like a bad person for anything I may or may not have done. I don't want to feel accused, or threatened. A little jealousy is flattering, but not in a crazy possibly end up in the trunk of a car kind of thing. I just want things to be right. Right in the way that I will be forgetting who each other is in a nursing home someday but falling in love all over again by the end of the day. *sigh*

Day 13:
Something you've been putting off

Everything?!

Kidding. (sort of) I've been putting off training and exercising and dieting. I WANT to, I NEED to, I just, struggle. Shocking I know since I can't even get my act together enough for a daily challenge and do like a week at a time right?

I signed up for a 5K to try to hold myself accountable so I would HAVE to train. Not just any 5K, one with ridiculous obstacles and wearing something totally ridiculous.

Yes, the Diva Dash. Paid, registered. Me. I can't really believe it myself and am waiting for the Ashton Kutcher hiding in my head to tell me I've been Punk'd! by myself. So far he hasn't shown up so I'm pretty sure it's the real deal.

So, feel free to nudge me (and by nudge I mean brutally force) to work out. To eat right and at least walk or something. My lazy ass needs to be kicked into gear.

Day 14:
Memories: Been to any concerts?

As a matter of fact, a shit ton. My first concert was The Monkees when I was 5 years old. I had an obsession with Davy Jones, much like everyone else in the 60's, only it was the 80's and I was in love with the Davy on the reruns I would watch from the 60's. Makes perfect sense.

I've seen so many concerts in so many genres. New Kids on the Block, Coldplay, Bon Jovi, Toby Keith, Rascal Flatts, Jewel, Motley Crue, Guns n Roses, Sammy Hagar, Bush, Rob Thomas, Rancid, The Ramones, The Cure, Oasis, Blur. So many I can't even remember them all. I even went to Lollapolooza in 1995.


Day 15:
Tell me: How are you like your ma/pa?

First of all, I am not a member of the Clampets. I called my parents Mom and Dad. Occasionally Ma, and Daddy when I really wanted something.

I am like my father more than anything I think. I will strike up a conversation with anyone and have someone become very Kevin Bacon like in that I am somehow connected to the whole world. I know someone somehow everywhere I go. I am also strong willed like he was and will not back down. I will call and yell at whomever I need to to get things done right.

I think I get my sense of humor from my mom though, and my slick dance moves.

Don't Put the Baby in The Microwave

Not to say I told you so or anything, but I told you all I would completely slack off and screw this whole challenge thing up, only took until Day 3. I'm a rebel.

In my own defense, I was off work from the afternoon of the 3rd until Monday and don't have a computer at home because I'm ghetto, and really who wants to sit and attempt to write a big long crazy blog post with your pokey little finger on your cell phone? I know it's smart and all, but that would have been entirely too much effort. Besides, I was too busy, you know, melting into my couch night after night while my child was away on vacation having fun and I had a few stellar dates with my DVR.

So, back to the matter at hand. Time to play catch-up and go through the past few days of the 31 day challenge. Why would I ever think of doing it in the orthodox way? Sheesh, you people don't know me at all.

Day 4:
5 Favorite Blogs

Well, considering I have overall slacked in the blogging department as a whole, I unfortunately have a lot of reading my dear friends to catch up on as well. However, In my years of blogging I have come to love and appreciate some of my fellow cyberspace writers and I will absolutely share them with you. And naturally, you should race right over to their pages and read until your eyes cross, or um get inspired or something. Yeah. That's the ticket!

First of all, you should head over to read Lauren's blog over at [hip-ster-krit] because she's awesome. She writes with thought and craft and her outlook on her life is amazing. She has lived a truly cool life and resides in the uber cool city of Austin, Texas. She has a fascination with Jeff Goldblum and mustaches and that's reason enough to go read her.

Second, you should head over to my dear friend Cath at I Started at the C-Prompt. Her and I have a special story that began a few years back and we have since realized our lives were mirrored. Not just by hemisphere and continent but by life's quirky circumstances and I adore her. She writes a blog, she writes for Parent 24 and she does a little bit of everything in South Africa and that's just pretty damn cool.

Third, You should read I Shouda Been a Stripper because she's hilarious.

Fourth, My friend Christine and I have known each other since like junior high. We even ended up working together for a while. She's smart, quick witted and a mom of 3 great kids. I miss her to pieces now that we don't see each other (aside from everyone's daily reunion on Facebook, obviously) but her blog is still a great outlet for her and definitely worth a read! Head over to The Foley File: Random Musings of a Married Mother of Three and see for yourself.

Fifth, Um I am sort of petering out on this one. I can cheat and say that I have a list of fabulous blogs you can link to from my blog and you can make up your own damn mind. Humphf.


Day 5:
Share: The Best Advice You've Ever Gotten

"Don't eat yellow snow."

I seriously have no idea about this one, I feel as though if I had really gotten the best advice of my life I would have not been in as many pickles as I have been in my 34 (*gasp I'm old) years.

Ok so there have been people who have said to "follow your heart" and every other cliche that can be thought of to cover just about any situation I found myself needing advice about. Some of it was helpful, some of the time I wanted to shove those words back into the person's mouth because I obviously knew that already, duh. It's a hard thing to do to figure out the best advice you've ever been given.

I had a little game at my baby shower where all the guests and supposed seasoned parents would write down a piece of advice for me as a new mother. The only one that really stuck out I believe was from my sister, who coincidentally is anti-children and didn't see my son until he was 6 months old and that was only because it was Easter and my Aunt chased her around a pool table at my cousin's house shouting "Look at your nephew! Look at your nephew!" as my sister ran away in fear. In any event, the little card simply read "Don't put the baby in the microwave". Life lesson learned.


Day 6:
Something for your kids to know

I want my son to know I love him more than life itself. That I would take every line of Bruno Mars "Grenade" song to heart and sacrifice everything I have for him. I know that song is about an unappreciative douche bag and all, but I think the whole I would catch a grenade for you thing works in protecting your children.

I want him to know that I am not perfect, but I try. That people always make mistakes and that it's human nature to do so. The key is to learn from those mistakes. The key is to try to never make the same one twice. The key is to not beat yourself up about them and to certainly not allow anyone else to do that for you either. (and I certainly need to learn to heed my own advice on this one for sure)

I want him to know that he is smart and funny and handsome and goofy and to stay that way forever. That he is amazingly talented and that he needs to always surround himself with people who lift him up and not bring him down. That he has a voice and he should always use it. That he should stand up for himself but never be a bully. That he should not allow anyone else to judge him and that he should do his best never to judge others because being different is what makes the world great. If we all walked around like drones and conformed to everything we may as well walk off the cliff into the meat grinder like Pink Floyd envisioned in The Wall.

I want him to never be afraid to try new things. To not decide he doesn't like something before he tried it. I've tried to work this motto in with food and so far so good. I don't have a super picky eater and I hope it translate into everything for him as he grows up.

I want him to laugh. To never be afraid to be happy, but to never be happy at someone else's expense. I want him to strive for greatness and to never give up on something he loves, no matter what anyone else's opinion is about it, because we all know what opinions are like.

I want him to be healthy. To not just hole himself up in a room in front of a television or video game for days at a time (ok so he does have days like this now, but I try to squash it) and then grow up to never leave my basement and have zero grasp of reality or how to interact with real people. No. I want him to still love to play outside. To run to dance to play to explore. To allow his imagination to continue to thrive and to push him to believe that anything he can dream is possible.

I want him to keep doing well in school. To use his gifts to carry him through life and go to college. I want him to accomplish more in his life than I ever did. I want him to be successful and happy and loved by everyone who he meets.

I want him to respect adults and women. I want him to treat people as he wants to be treated and to grow up holding doors and paying people compliments. People may forget things you did but never how you made them feel. I want him to make people feel he is a good egg, even if he's slightly cracked.

I want him to appreciate what he has and has been given and never expect things to be handed to him. I never want him to expect things for no reason. I want to earn his accolades and not to expect something just for showing up. Life doesn't work that way. You earn awards and promotions. You have to try hard to accomplish things in life, not just get something for participating. You HAVE to participate in life, you shouldn't get rewarded for it.

I want him to know he is my whole world and that he changed me. He taught be to be selfless and how to love harder and fiercer than I ever thought humanly possible. And for that I want him to know I am grateful to him and will be for the rest of my life.

(end sap)


Day 7:
Memories: What's your earliest one?

I have the world's worst memory. My brother actually makes fun of me for it all the time. In my hypochondriac mind I believe it's a sign of early onset Alzheimer's or something, but I am probably just neurotic. Or I read it on WebMD and along with a bevy of other ailments I am likely to self-diagnose myself with as my ultimate demise.

I grew up on a make-shift farm. Not a working farm mind you, but you see my family is well, odd. (If you've ever met them or read anything I've ever written about them you are nodding your head in agreement as we speak)

It all started because my brother was born a pain in the ass. Literally. He wouldn't stop crying. He was colicky and was constantly throwing everything up. So, in an exhausted state my father was working for an old woman in Boston somewhere. She was either Haitian or Jamaican or of some other island origin I can't exactly recall.

My dad must have been taking to her about my brother's lack of sleep and eating therefore causing my parents lack of sleep and moodiness. In any event, this mystery woman emerged and handed my father a container and told him to give it to the baby. Because it was 1980 and the world wasn't nearly as fucked up as it apparently is now, my dad said sure why the hell not.

So he took the container home and gave it to my brother as instructed. Like magic he slept, stopped crying and didn't projective vomit whatever this miracle liquid was. Of course my father tells the woman it worked and asked what it was. Goats milk.

So naturally being a level-headed man, my father went out and bought goats. And the rest of our hodge podge menagerie grew from there.

Anyway, back to the point. We had a farm. We also had a turkey. My dad, again in all his brilliance, got the turkey to plump up and then slaughter for Thanksgiving dinner in good old fashioned New England tradition.

The turkey had other plans. She was a character all her own and every time we would have music playing on the "yard" side of the property she would mosey over to the fence as close as she could and start dancing. Well we obviously couldn't eat her so we named her Theresa. She quickly moved into our dog Chachi's house and then poor dog was forced to sleep on the roof, like snoopy.

Again, Theresa in all her glory laid eggs as female birds do. She however left them unattended. And my 3 year old self thought eggs had to be sat on in order to hatch. I did watch Looney Toons and that happened all the time. So, not realizing that unfertilized turkey eggs would not hatch, I sat on the eggs, in the blazing heat of summer. And as eggs do when left out in the blistering sun, they had let's say fermented.

So I sat on a nest of rotten eggs on a ghetto farm in the middle of suburbia at 3 years old.


Day 8:
Tell Me: Currently reading anything?

Sadly no. I have a library book that is so overdue that it's been close to a year out I think and I never got myself into it. I also have a buttload on my Kindle but haven't had time to peruse even the slightest magazine. I've been a sucker for the TV. May need to work on that.


Day 9:
Women: What's in your purse?

Well that's opening a Pandora's box in and of itself. My purse is sort of like Mary Poppins bag, I never have any idea what I could pull out of it. Mostly it's just a straight up mess. 900 shades of lip gloss, my wallet, a bunch of random receipts. I did have pepper spray but I took it out when I flew last month so now it's sitting on my coffee table. Safe I know. My car keys, sunglasses, a couple inhalers. It's a mess. See?

Day 10:
Share: Old photos of yourself

Here's a bunch to tide you over. Yes I have always been fabulous.

Day 11:
Your Favorite: 10 songs right now

In no particular order:



















and just for good measure

Bloglovin

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

No pressure or anything, but just do it, K?

You May Find Yourself Living in a Shotgun Shack

Day 3:

Why do you blog?

Is it weird that by reading this question that The Talking Heads "Once in a Lifetime" popped into my head? Not exactly sure the exact correlation between reading "Why do you blog" and that song, but my coffee clearly hasn't kicked in yet and eff you for judging me!!

I always loved English. Not the people (although I have nothing against tea and crumpets and what not, but you know what I mean) but the subject. I have been an avid reader since I was 3. I could always immerse myself into what I was reading, envisioning exactly what the writer was seeing as they put their words to life on paper. Characters would resonate with me, they would become more than an imagined protagonist, they became my friends. I felt I knew them, that I too was there in what ever scenario their life was playing out in chapter after chapter.

I sort of hated pictures in books. They never lived up to my imagination of whatever character was being portrayed. When I read Dan Brown's "Davinci Code" a few years back, I was so engrossed in his description of the main character that when I learned they cast Tom Hanks I refused to see the movie, already angry since he had clearly described his main character as "Harrison Ford in Harrison tweed". I mean, Harrison Ford is still a love and well so once would think a natural casting choice, but I digress.

I always wrote. I would write poems as young as I could remember. Essay assignments in school that would cause my fellow classmates to cringe in collective groans would have my mind reeling with excitement at the chance to go home and write for hours. I always got an A in English. I took everything I could as I got older. Journalism, Shakespeare, Literature. Anything that would allow me to write, to read.

I used to blog as it were on a variety of sites over the years. I would write sort of essay-esque editorial rants just because I could. My MySpace page of yore was littered with them. Remember MySpace? Just a few short years ago it was the coolest hippest thing in town, and now it's about as awesome as a rotary phone. A distant memory of a technology that is obsolete and dated even though it was the most innovative thing of 2007. Crazy.

Anyway, I pooled all my miscellaneous internet rants and what not into once place in 2009. People would react to what I wrote. They emoted whether in a positive way or not, they reacted. I realized I was touching people somehow. That they too had the same reaction to whatever it was that pissed me off that day. That they too felt whatever I felt at any given moment. All those times I felt alone and completely insane for whatever estrogen or otherwise fueled emotional drama I was facing at the time, someone somewhere had been there too. Who knew?!

I had always wanted to be a writer. I was the editor of my high school newspaper. I aspired to be great, an idealistic teenager who wanted to change the world. Clearly reality has set in now that I'm in my 30's and I realize that my chances of being some sort of world renowned author are slim to none. I was published here and there over the years. An op-ed in a Vermont newspaper when I was 18, a tribute to a local hero in another newspaper a few years back. I even got a poem published in a book, which I then realized I basically paid to be in, but it's got an ISBN number so I'll take it. Blogging is it.

I don't have deadlines. I don't have editors. I don't have censorship. I can write what I want when I want how I want. You don't have to like it, you don't have to agree with it. I can live within my own little internet bubble. Granted I haven't done anything in ages, but that's the beauty of it. I can pick up right where I left off and not get in trouble. Not worry about having failed someone except myself.

I remember stumbling across a blog years ago. An article of sorts that resonated with me so wholeheartedly I felt as though it were written and directed straight at me. I remember my reaction to her words. I thought, "Wow, this is my life!". She was from South Africa. What?! My mind was blown. Across the world, on a different continent, in a different hemisphere than myself someone's life mirrored my own. We were kindred spirits. And now, we're friends. (and you can check out her awesome blog I Started at the C Prompt)

If I can touch just one person (and not in a creepy way, so get those thoughts out of your head this instant. This INSTANT I said!) and affect them as she did me, if I can be relatable and maybe help at least one person feel less alone, then I have succeeded. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.

I Start Fresh on Mondays

What better way to get back on the blogging bandwagon than to force myself into a 31 day blog challenge?!

Let's be serious, I am totally going to screw it up, much like when I try to diet. I'm a firm believe of the "Start Fresh on Monday" school of thought and usually by late Tuesday I am already ready to "Start Fresh on Monday" again since I have usually eaten something that just by smell alone is clogging my arteries, but for shits and giggles let's pretend I don't procrastinate or not finish things I start, K?

Anywho, I was perusing the old internet and trying to coerce myself into thinking of new blog fodder and stumbled across a 31 day challenge. Low and behold, July has 31 days. Even my math-retarded ass can figure that one out. And hey, it's only the 2nd, so I can pull off 2 posts in one day right?? Right???

So here goes, Day 1 and 2....because I do it my way damnit.

Day 1:

Intro & Recent Photo

Oh hai! That's me. Last month (technically June is now last month so it's totally the right way to put it) on a business trip in North Carolina. That's right, I said business trip. I'm kind of a big deal now. I know I was all "I'm unemployed" and "I need a job" for the longest time ever, but now BOOM! I've got not only one but TWO titles at work and actually like what I do.

With one hat I'm the Technology and Marketing Director (take that bitches!) and with the other I am the Generator Sales and Services Manager. I know, I can hardly contain myself either. I have 2 sets of business cards, 2 email signatures. It's anarchy. I have an iPad and I get to travel for miscellaneous things. So far I've been to Baltimore, MD and Asheville, NC. I also go back and forth to Martha's Vineyard all the time. I know, revel in your jealousy. I'll give you a minute.

Aside from now being all kinds of important in my 9-5 life, I am a board member on the PTA. Stop snickering assholes, I'm totally serious. I am working mom extraordinaire and I can't even tell you how the hell that even happened. My PTA is pretty badass though. We're not a bunch of those Stepfordish douches who make you feel inadequate if you can't make a bunt cake. No way Jose, we're all just cool. I mean, I think so anyway, but people on the outside looking in could have a completely different picture of my little Mom bubble, but don't pop it ok? I kind of like my delusions thank you very much.

My almost 9 year old son is also a badass. He's quirky and funny and random and completely a pain in the ass, but he's MY pain in the ass. He was diagnosed with Asperger's almost 3 years ago and he has probably taught me more than I could ever teach him. Ok, so I teach him a lot, but still. Some days you'd never know he was anywhere close to the spectrum, other days you want to pull your hair out because he's having a melt down over a piece of dryer lint (not literally dryer lint, but usually something else that makes absolutely no sense to anyone else what so ever). Mostly though, he's pretty awesome and a little overly obsessed with Super Mario.

I swear like a trucker in case you haven't noticed. I did the whole try not to swear thing, it doesn't work well for me and I slip all the time. Luckily my kid isn't a repeater and usually just goes "Mooooom..." in an annoyed teenage-angsty sounding way like he's already mortified by everything I do.

So I guess that's an intro right? Well, it is now!

Day 2:

Meaning of your blog name

Um, that's pretty self explanatory. I'm so fucking fabulous I piss glitter.

Dear Blogosphere.......I'm Back!

Dear Blogosphere,

I am sorry I have basically dropped you like a bad habit. You see, things have been super crazy over the last year or so, and frankly I sort of shut that part of my brain off (I know I know; excuses excuses).

You see, I had sort of a bad run. Job instability seemed to rule my life there for a while. Working through temp agencies with the promise of hire only to have those rugs pulled out from underneath me. Because really, why would I have accepted a position with the promise of unemployment soon again after? Sneaky fuckers I know. They lure you in with the promise of benefits and income and then POOF! Here's your hat what's your hurry.

The old personal life wasn't exactly a picnic either. I could sit and rant about it today to you, but that is likely a story (or 50) for another day.

The point is, I missed you. You were an old reliable friend I could count on. You were the outlet and release I had to vent to after a bad day. The tried and true compadre who was there when I went off on a variety of tangents with little to no judgement (and if there was any, I had the distinct pleasure of clicking that elusive DELETE button and muttering "Fuck you" under my breath as your shitty little words evaporated back into cyberspace).

I let you down I know, and now I want you to know I am back. I'd like to say better than ever, but I've never been one to toot my own horn...(Toot Toot!!)

I'm not even sure if my ability to write is still alive inside me. Not sure if I can put to paper (metaphorically of course, since I am obviously typing) my thoughts and words the same way I once was able. Can I still turn a phrase? Can I still hear my voice in a plethora of characters typed on a computer screen? Who knows. Only time will tell.

Another reason for my sabbatical was an annoying as all hell feature I stupidly enacted within Google and then changed my phone number and was locked out of my account for quite some time. I mean really, who does that?! I get the whole extra security measure thing to avoid hacking, but then to not allow yourself access even when you try your supposed back up methods? Pissed me off. Finally after several irate emails and requests to the Powers that Be, I was once again granted access to my account and viola! Here I am.

So to my fellow writers, I applaud your dedication and your ability to keep up the good fight. I hope to join you once again, armed with a pen (you know what I mean...) and ready to get back into the battle of wits I once felt part of.

Until we meet again.....

Apryl