I’ve been reading blogs all morning. When you can’t write, read instead.
“But why can’t you write, Alyson?”
Do you really want to know, pretend-other-person-that’s-actually-me-because-no-one else-really-cares?
“Yes, I do.” *shifty eyes*
There are so many reasons, but I suppose the one that stands out is that it’s not good enough; my standards have risen higher than my capabilities. Then, I feel as though I’ve written myself into a corner, limited myself to one certain kind of thing. I can’t write about the sex I’m not having. I can't write funny anecdotes because my brain has turned to mush and my ovaries have turned into ripe peaches ...Hey, pay attention!
“What? Oh...peaches, right!”
Technically my ovaries have nothing to do with this. I’m just obsessed with them in a strange way at the moment because my cousin just had a baby and I went to visit them two days in a row. I went back the second time because he was asleep the first day and I didn’t get to hold him. I wanted to hold him badly and when I did it was great. I was all, “look at your tiny face and your tiny hands”, and I totally bogarted the fucker for 20 minutes while all the menopausal bitches glared at me and sharpened their canes into spears to stab through my 24 (almost 25) year old baby making mechanics.
I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. I don’t like children. They smell bad, take over the TV, and ruin your carpet. So basically they’re like men and animals all rolled into one package that won’t leave for 18+ years AND comes out of your vagina. Ugh. Why am I cooing over a baby? Am I going to turn into Octomom? There’s a conspiracy afoot. I’ve been having suburbia daydreams too. Someone or something is putting hormone meds in my food and drink...maybe even in my body lotion.
“Ok, now you’re just being paranoid. Heh...whore moans.”
Seriously. You’re ridiculous. I’m trying to tell you that I can’t write, I’m cuddling babies, and imagining a white colonial with a collie and a Volvo. Maybe my family was right about commitment – the psychotic kind not the relationship kind. Except instead of being treated for anger issues and problems with authority, I’ll be going for Suburbia Syndrome. Just like that movie that Nicole Kidman sucked in. Only I’d have better hair, facial expressions that surpass the range of a blow up doll, and my husband wouldn’t have to point his remote control at me for sex.
“Yeah, you should have more of that now.”
You’re telling me! Do you know I’ve had a handful of opportunities and I’ve passed on them?
“Maybe you are on drugs...”
That’s what I’m telling you! The lack of creative genius, the cooing, the ovary ripening that women who can’t have babies anymore can sense, the weird dreams, the turning down of prime one night stand ass: it all adds up. I’m being poisoned! Sprayed with eau de Fresh Fetus! Brain washed into looking for an ideal mate to MATE with and produce SUBURBAN SPAWN OF SATAN!
“You might want to calm down. Heavy breathing like that is only for orgasms and serial killers. I mean, unless you want to get off at work. I’m totally fine with it...”
Shut up! I’m trying to concentrate. I need to make a list of suspects. Who would stand to gain the most from slipping me...
...personality tranquilizers? *glare*
“ Hmm...Lunch Box Boy? He totally wants to fertilize your Vagunia.”
Idiot. He’s gay.
“Maybe for revenge, then?”
No. It’s not him. It’s got to be someone I see almost every day – like mom, Lee, or The Grandmother.
“My money is on Wrinkles. She’s been after you for years.”
You’re right. I’ve been spending more and more time over there lately. And she’s been way too nice – making me pie, rubbing my hair, not watching me in a creepy stalker fashion while I sleep. My GAWD! It is her!
“So what are you gonna do now, Sherlock Hormones?”
I’m going to confront her!
As soon as I finish cross stitching this blank...I mean...Oh, just get the hell out of here!
Yer So Bad
1 week ago