Posts from — April 2008

Chicken butt!

Last time we went to Skate Night, my hand was sore the next day from the Colossal Death Grip Bug had on me the whole night.

This time….

…fearless.

Some days (i.e. TODAY) I procrastinate about posting because I can’t think of how to write about my life so that it’s interesting, and besides there are couches to shop for online and a recorded ANTM to watch. It’s not an ideas issue so much, because some pretty blog-worthy things have happened lately (and keep in mind that “blog-worthy” can include plucking my eyebrows or cooking dinner), it’s more of a writing issue. It’s like I have word constipation. Or rather blog construction constipation. BCC. I suffer from it.

And there is no laxative you can take for it. I think blogs work well for people who like to write for writing’s sake – people who have journals and poetry notebooks and such. The act of writing as a practice probably helps in times when you feel crippled by the VERY EXISTENCE OF YOUR OWN BLOG. Not that I feel like that ever. Like today.

But I don’t do any of that. There’s nothing else I write in besides this blog. ZipZilchNada. I do sort of have a place to store ideas in case I think of some funny quotation of the day from Bug or have some twist of words that came to me that I want to remember, but it pretty much consists of some Post It notes next to my bed that have things written on them like “akin to peeling my fingernails off one by one” or “schmo sandwich”. Not much of a writing discipline.

I didn’t really create this blog to Become a Good Writer though, so I don’t feel guilty about not practicing my “craft” or whatnot. Writing just happens to be an unfortunate necessity to the blogging life. So sometimes my posts turn out ok. And sometimes they suck. Which is exactly how the days in my life are.

And that’s exactly why I like blogging.

That and the cold, hard cash.

Dear Internet,

It is far too pretty a day to be sitting inside writing a blog post. I feel as though if I spend more than five minutes here on this couch, I may be smited. Or smote, depending on whether God cares about grammar.

THEREFORE, I say unto ye! Go forth and exit your buildings. Soaketh in the rays (with appropriate SPF, natch) and frolic. Do this in the name of Yestertime, who hast decreed that you shalt.

AMEN.

The problem:

You don’t want to know what happened in here. And how long ago.

The solution:

On sale at your local Target.

Up next…we clean the car!