There seems to be a running theme in my blog posts. A proclamation that I am here to conquer the world, watch out, here I come, followed by a long silence, and rounded up with a “yeah, I done fucked up.” I have, once again, fucked things up.
To bring you up to speed, since my last post in 2016, the world has been blighted by Donald Trump’s “presidency”, and we are in the midst of a global shut-down of pretty much everything in response to the spread of the COVID-19 pandemic. The only thing worse than the virus is the giant orange asshole and his ilk, trying to profit from it. Apparently, this unbelievable piece of shit tried to secretly buy the company working on the COVID-19 vaccine, so he could give the US exclusive rights and access to it.
But I digress.
My hair is purple, I’ve found all my lost weight and then some, and I’m probably in the middle of what they call a mid-life crisis. Hence the purple hair and IDGAF attitude towards pretty much everything. I still have dreams of being a writer, but there’s only one problem with that: you have to actually write frequently, and consistently, in order to be a writer. I tell myself it’s writer’s block. I tell myself I’m waiting to have the right things to say. That I’m waiting to build my writing skills before I tackle The Next Great Novel, so I can do the story justice. But ultimately? If I’m honest with myself? I think the answer is simpler than that.
My writing style demands transparency. Honesty. Humility and vulnerability. I don’t think I even know how to write without doing this. I think it’s these things that speak most clearly to people. It’s the message I most want to bring to others: that it’s normal to be ordinary, plain, underwhelming, and yes, even an asshole sometimes. Social media keeps telling us about all the amazing shit people are doing out there – and yes, there are some people out there who are actually making a living skydiving. But life isn’t a competition. Their experience doesn’t invalidate yours. Or mine.
I am ordinary in so many ways. I’m a privileged, middle-aged white woman of average looks, gainfully employed at a 8-4 office job, married, and living in my own brick bungalow in the rural countryside of a peaceful, prosperous first world country with free healthcare. If God gives us only what we can handle, it doesn’t speak well of my strength of character. I’m too much of a pansy to have any hardships in my life without it distracting me too much from my life goal. What that is, precisely, I’m not sure. But it better be damn good to warrant such a cushy life. It sucks a little, though, that my life story doesn’t lend me much street cred when talking with people who have had to endure so much more.
And yet, despite my middle-of-the-road, beige minivan of a life, I understand how awesome I am.
I am really and truly awesome. And if others don’t see that, I’m sorry for them, that they don’t get to know the real me. I’ve always been this way, I think. Thinking that highly of myself. I’m goddamned royalty, if you ask me. It often provokes a who-do-you-think-you-are from many, offended that anyone would think so highly of herself, assuming that I must think I’m better than them.
On the contrary.
I think they’re just as awesome as I am, and their disbelief is the only thing getting in the way of it being true. My job – my calling – I think, is to get people to understand their own potential. And how do I want to do that? Preferably by writing about it. Because I’m not good at the face to face stuff. Don’t even get me started about public speaking. And here’s where things fall flat.
Why am I not writing? I obviously can run my mouth. Usually my posts are liberally sprinkled with all sorts of profanity, epithets, controversial opinion, etc. As an aside, true to form, I’m trying to turn over a new leaf…again. Trying to keep it PG. It ain’t gonna last, but I’d like to try to get through at least one post without saying fuck. No, I have all sorts of opinions.
The bottom line is…well…a couple of things.
First, because my writing style is at its best when it’s vulnerable and transparent, I need to actually follow through on my plans when I proclaim them to my readers. Follow-through is, obviously, not one of my strong points. I don’t DO anything worth writing about. I’ve fallen into the trap of thinking I need to be a fitness model drag queen who does makeup tutorials while skydiving to be worth listening to. I don’t have a schtick. What’s my catchphrase? Which niche do I fall into?
I don’t know who I am, and because of this, I have no idea what to say to others. I have no idea why anyone would listen to me. (Why are you still here??)
And further to this, the second thing is that most people aren’t keen on being told the truth of things. Because the truth looks a lot like work. Everyone has gifts. Mine, unfortunately, is rooted in my ability to see through people’s bullshit facades to who they really are. Not the ugliness in themselves, but to something even worse: their potential. It’s easier to admit to yourself that you’re a piece of shit, than it is to have to come to terms with unlived potential.
Let me say that again…
It’s easier to admit to yourself that you’re a piece of shit, than it is to have to come to terms with unlived potential.
Nobody is comfortable with that truth. Present company included.
But there’s something else with which I’ve been gifted: an unfailing, unswerving devotion to the truth. It’s where I find God. It’s my responsibility, as the steward and keeper of my immortal soul, to question what I believe, and seek out God/The Truth wherever it may be found. And if a thing is undeniably true, it is my obligation as an obedient servant, to bend my knee to it, own it, and have the humility to admit I was wrong. Regardless of where that truth was found.
Don’t know if you’ve picked up on it, but I’m a little intense sometimes. Honestly, I have no idea how people put up with me so regularly. I’m like a shot of ghost pepper sauce. I’m an acquired taste, a little goes a long way, and I give many people indigestion. Unlike Frank’s Red Hot, you don’t want to put that shit on everything.
ANYway, the uncomfortable truth is that I have used the excuse that I don’t do enough living to be interesting to readers. Perhaps what I’ve been missing all this time is that it’s my failure that could interest them the most. The process of falling and getting back up. Hopefully learning as I go. If failure is your thing, holy shit have I got some material for you. Buckle up, bitches.
Not really. Just… read my stuff. My life doesn’t require a seat belt.