I can blog, but I can’t write. I tell my students to just write and not get caught up in how it’s supposed to sound. And yet, I am mired in the notion that writing has to have a certain diction from the gate. I do not — nor have I ever — given myself the excellent advice that I have for others.
I am prepared to take on the pasta machine for a third time. This time, it is a major part of my only dinner plan, so I must feel more confident than the last two times. I am determined to make this purchase worthwhile. I plan to keep at it until it’s perfected. The first time, too gummy. The second, too sticky. Third time’s a charm?
I have seen more turds fall from that giraffe’s backside than I have ever wished to see. Really, one would be more than I ever wished for. It’s been way more than one. I actually got a text from a similarly obsessed friend last night in the middle of my feminist/racial justice book club: “Her tail is way up and she keeps banging her head into her side.” This is what it’s come to.
Mid-March snowstorms can kiss my ass. I no longer have any use for winter. I understand why my people move south when they reach a certain age.
Speaking of age, less than a month until 43. For reals middle age. If I had enough money, I’d go get myself a fancy Jaguar. (Except not really. Maybe just some fancy jewelry.)
Sunday, we rally. Because — to quote my nephew — This right here? This is crap.