Whenever I read my old blog posts, it sounds like someone is YELLING. The entire thing is narrated in my mind by a shrill, high-volume, Gilbert Gottfried-esque (aging myself) voice. The content is cringe enough as it is. We're all idiots until we turn thirty-five, and then we're just cagier, more subdued idiots. The content is cringe but ALSO the tone, and the cadence, and the intimation that there is a giant spotlight turned on us, and that society at large should be so lucky to hear our innermost monologues, wrought with narcissism and dripping with entitlement.
About 345 years has passed since my last blog post. I've gone from nursing a hangover at a desk with McDonalds to successfully nursing and subsequently weaning three children, who I NEVER feed McDonalds because, you know, "toxins". In fact, I'm going to go a step further and just attribute all of the nearly unreadable historical blog post to being riddled with toxins. Toxins out the ears. Everyone knows that too much processed food makes your writing absolute tripe.
I floated the idea of attending a writers workshop to my husband yesterday evening. This was a mistake because he now has in his mind the figment that I may indeed ATTEND a writers conference. Now, every time we go to have an argument (that I start) about my unfulfilled career and mid-life existential crisis, he can say something along the lines of "what about that writers workshop you were going to go to??". Fuck. Not to generalize, but everything I say out loud to anyone after 10pm is such horseshit.
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