Have you ever had creative blue balls?
Like you have so much STUFF thudding around in your head that you need to blarf (blurt + barf) onto your desired medium, but you keep missing your moments where you can actually DO IT and FREE IT from your brain cage, and then you feel all stopped up and frustrated and start writing embarrassing updates on your Facebook Page about your vagina that reach more than 20,000 people (which is simultaneously fascinating and mortifying) and then you pull over in your *imaginary car and yell at the steering wheel (made out of a giant cinnamon-sugar flecked pretzel), and put everything you're supposed to be doing onto a raft and shove it into the ocean like a viking funeral pyre so you can just sit down and WRITE.
I am a BLOGGER, for Christ's sake. One must blog to maintain that fresh-as-hell label.
(*If I sound like I'm high, it's because I am, kind of. This release of words has me soaring above the city and staring in at all the couples having weird sex. The words spilling out of my poorly manicured fingers right now are like tiny orgasms all in a row. Round and creamy and delicious and mine. I need a cigarette.)
I'm back. For the 15 of you wondering if I sold this blog to Netflix, I am back.
I told you about things that were the Devil's business back in February. All the secret radish lovers came flying out of the woodwork and tried to make me feel bad. (Didn't work, weirdos.)
This time I've got three more things that are ABSOLUTELY the worst. I've polished these thoughts and now they are sparkly and ready.
I used to be jealous of people who always had stuff to do. I would listen over a dinner, with my mouth half-open, as they regaled me with their calendar's greatest hits. Event after meeting after phone call after task after obligation. I would nod and chase the last matchstick of broccoli slaw around my plate and ask questions and generally feel like I was a toddler in human skin or the punchline in that Stand By Me joke about if your mother had any kids that lived.
I was bored and sedate and free. I hated it. I wanted to be busy.
Me now to me then: Be SO fucking careful what you wish for. Idiot.
I could slide an Excel spreadsheet in here for you that details all the insane workload I have piled on my plate over the last 6 months as I build my freelance business, but I don't know how to set up an Excel spreadsheet so needless to say, I'm so busy I eat cheese strings in 2 big bites.
I don't have time to string the string cheese. If ever there was a tangible reason to say being busy is all butt and no fun, that'd be it. Busy is bullshit and I don't wish it on anyone.
1. If the top sheet is carefully tucked in, which takes (give or take) about 45 hours if you own a queen-sized bed, when you get into bed, your feet are immediately forced to be splayed out and pinned down. Top sheets like to punish your feet for being awesome and getting you everywhere you needed to be that day. Ridiculous.
2. If you want to actually enjoy your sleep you have to gently waggle your cruelly trapped lower half so that there is some give under the top sheet, which, WITHOUT FAIL, in the dead of night will result in a 100% untucked top sheet that somehow becomes wrapped around you like a Superhero cape, if Superhero capes were sweaty cotton choking devices. You kick and punch it off you like it's a 400-thread count anaconda and what's really cool is that is cost $60 and it hates you as much as you hate it.
FACT: Most of my life I have not used a top sheet. My Mom was an early adapter of duvets. But I remember the wrath of the top sheet. Once bitten, twice shy. Every now and then I try to see if they have innovated a top sheet that doesn't make me lose my goddamn mind at 3 am. As of this writing, they are all still terrible.
Pimple Popping Videos
Like most 38-year-olds, I get Mom munchies at night. Watching violent HBO dramas and streaming Netflix comedies feels incomplete if your arms aren't dunked in Dorito dust up to your elbow. I love midnight snacks more than any other meal, ever. Sure, I wouldn't spit on a perfectly poached egg, perched on pork belly, oozing into a stack of honey-roasted hash browns, overlooking some tropical landscape where the wi-fi is spotty. But give me 4 small bowls of salty, crunchy, sweet and gummi items in a darkened living room with guest pillows under my head and one leg dangling off the couch, and I am in heaven.
Problem is those late night calories are violent. They claw into my stomach and ass with meaty tenterhooks that no amount of squat jumps can shake loose.
So - I found a terrible way to derail my evening appetite. Cue up any of the kazillion pimple popping Instagram accounts, YouTube channels ETC and watch...just...one.
Congratulations. You will never eat again.
So, are we in agreement this time? All of the above things are repugnant, right? Agree, disagree or agree to disagree, however you feel, just feel it in the Comments.
People who comment are my favourite.