this shit's hard.

Oh my LORD! I cannot blog to save my own life. I have now written 3 different posts a paragraph in and then deleted them. So somehow THIS little rant seemed a better angle. Watch out you 4 previous sentences. Now five. You have a very good chance of being deleted, too.

Setting out to do 30 days of anything is no easy feat. By now, however, as I near the end, I should be pretty damn close to having formed a new habit. A good one even! (for a change) And yet despite having a list of blog suggestions from friends, and a list of blog concepts hazily crafted in the car en route to Seattle, and a brain that churns out nonsense at a Palin-rate, you'd think I could just hop right in here and go bleep bloop bloo ... ta da! done.

Bah. Words.

This shit's hard.

But it's what I love. I love to write more than I love to sing. I love to sing, but I'm so very particular about what I do sing that it's more like chugging down medicine that I know will make me feel good later rather than licking a bowl of frosting which makes me feel good now.

I love to write more than I love to dance. I love to dance, but I seldom get the chance. I should've never quit ballet. But the teacher was such a snatch-face. I said it. You hear me Teacher Nancy?! You're a snatch-face! And I'll never ever EVER forgive you for not letting me go up on toe shoes because my arches weren't good enough for you! Well listen up snatchy, they're good enough, they're smart enough, and goddammit, people like 'em.

So. Onward. Before this month wraps up in 3 days, I just want you all to know that I don't plan on stopping. But clearly it has to slow down. Cause when the will is there, the inspiration might not be. And when the inspiration is there, the time might not be. And when the time is there, I might lay down face first on the cool living room floor and let the dog hair breeze over me. It makes the dog hair feel useful, and it  makes the floor feel loved. And it makes me feel, most importantly, like I could definitely play a bloated dead body inside the maze of a hoarder's paradise on some t.v. show that I would never watch. It makes me feel like laying on my floor face down is practicing. And practice, well, it makes perfect.

Unless you have shitty arches.


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