Plenty

I read through all of my blog posts the other night (because what else is a single, twenty-something girl to do on a Saturday night?), and I noticed that I'm always talking about a drought or a dearth or a scarcity of words.  It seems like whenever I don't write in my journal for months at a time, I blame the words and their elusiveness--who can arrest the mercurial appellations which taunt and dance and entice the scribbler from just beyond her capabilities? Ugh. Gag me.

 In all seriousness, it wasn't fair for me to blame the words: I doodle with words instead of pictures.  Stories happen to me (pour into my head when I meet a disgruntled employee at Taco Bell or when I watch a magnificent sunset or when I'm trying to get to bed at three in the morning) whether I'm looking for them or not.  I doodle with words instead of pictures.  I read emails I've sent and I can't believe I wrote them because they sound so naturally professional.

Sometimes I feel like I'm made up of words.

No, it isn't language's fault that I don't write.  Note: don't, not can't.  I can write about anything, but I don't.  I just don't.

So here it is: no more excuses. And this isn't like all of the other resolutions I've ever made on this blog.  I need to take responsibility for my decisions, and I need to learn to express myself whether I can describe this feeling or that just so or not.  Because who cares whether it's perfect?  Not all prose can or should be breathtaking.  I need to learn to trust the beauty of my life and to trust that I will accumulate words as I search for them, as I sit down to write.

There is no drought over here.

I have plenty to say.

Sometimes A Girl Just Has To Eat Chocolate

Sometimes a girl just has to eat a lot of chocolate in a short space of time.  Specifically, I ate half a bag of peanut butter M&Ms on my way home from Smith's today (Smith's is 4 blocks from my house. Seriously).  I'm stressed.  It's bad.  I feel like I did las summer- like I'm careening toward a gaping, grasping, fiery chasm, trying desperately to cling to anything familiar in the hopes that it'll stop the madness.


I've been shaking lately.  The tiniest hint of a nervous situation makes me tremble like a bad case of the Parkinson's.  And today I couldn't sit still.  It took every ounce of my not inconsiderable self-control to stay in class.  All of them.  All of my classes.


The thing is, I don't even have a legitimate excuse.  I mean, I had a run-in with the UVU administrative process, but my pile of good things is definitely taller than my pile of bad things right now (did I mention I bought the paisley soup bowls? Did I mention I eat out of them every day?).


So why can't I breathe?


Rough start to the semester.  I hope I get a grip, and soon, or this is gonna be a long 14 weeks.

~~~

Recorded 9/12/11

I'll Admit It Through an Anecdote

I recently stumbled across this brilliant little blog called Reasoning With Vampires. It's a thorough deconstruction of the Twilight series, and I love it. I spent three hours today catching up on the posts I've never read (don't judge me. I'm never productive in summer). This one post made me wonder where publishing companies draw the line in terms of a piece's awfulness. How horrendous can a manuscript be and still find its way across Mr. Boss's desk and into the "PUBLISH THIS" pile? Has the threshold ever been scientifically tested?

As you may remember from my previous posts, I record books on tape for a company called Covenant Communications. The things they hand me to read are not always works of art. Last time I was in the booth I took five minutes to read one sentence because of its accidental humorous connotation (your mother is a German Shepherd!).

All of this is to say that the part about the editor set the devious half of my brain a-scheming and I decided to see whether I could write the world's worst book and manage to get it published. Then I came to my senses and felt like I needed to take a shower.

Ugly Days

I was home alone this evening and since I can't plop myself down in front of the TV like I usually do, I plopped myself down in front of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. I was feeling lonely, you see, and I thought that watching a movie about somebody else who is lonely would make me feel better. I forgot that Tula actually finds a man pretty early on and they get married. The movie didn't really help me to not be lonely.

I am trying really hard to convince myself that I'm worth it, that somebody is going to fall head over heels in love with me and won't be able to sleep for thinking about me. It's really hard to imagine, as I sit here with my greasy hair and an unwashed face in smelly clothes while foaming at the mouth with Crest Whitening Rinse, that anybody will ever find me attractive, much less attractive enough to spend the rest of eternity with.

But even on these ugly days when I can't see past my jiggling thighs, I am trying to discover things about myself that are lovable. I am not the prettiest, the smartest, the skinniest, or the most spiritual person around, but I love life even when it's a montage of empty Lean Cuisine boxes and late night Project Runway marathons. I'm willing to give myself time and to figure all this out.

I don't know whether I'm worth marrying, but I know I'm worth that much.

~~~

Recorded 6/23/11

I'll Admit It

Sometimes I go to bed with my eye makeup on in the hopes that I'll look moviestar perfect while I sleep and when I wake up.

That's innocent enough, isn't it?