Here's the deal: I feel like shit, I probably look like shit, and I am quite literally off my meds. (Can't play the post-partum depression card forever, kids.)
For those of you who are left, I try to keep up with a posting schedule of about twice a week. I figure if I do that long enough, I'll have paid my dues (You know what old Jack Burton says at a time like this? "The check is in the mail") and my blog will magically transform in to something lots of people give a shit about. Because honestly? Ain't too many people giving a shit right now.
And no, I am neither trying to insult you who are reading this nor in any way devalue your contribution to my self-esteem. I am still ridiculously grateful to all of you who are willing to take time out of your day to read about whatever bug has stuck to the flypaper of my mind (or flown up my ass--depends on what kind of day it is) for that post .
But I have access to the numbers and they don't lie. I could go in to what I have and have not done to affect these numbers, but Jesus, that would be boring as shit, and I do TRY to avoid that.
Unfortunately, I don't really have much else to offer at the moment aside from a pity party and half-lucid commentary on medication withdrawal. And I actually am sorry about that. I love the idea of writing blogs, get this, BEFORE the day before posting, that way when life (or mind-altering situtions) happen, I have some little piece of brilliance I can just hit the publish button on and be good to go. But, yeah, that ain't gonna happen any time soon. I do NOT have my shit that much together.
Where was I? Oh yes, medication withdrawal. It sucks. The end.
Okay, maybe not THE end. Apparently one cannot fiddle with one's brain chemistry without incurring the wrath of one's . . . brain. Getting on a medication, isn't so bad. Getting off one can be absolutely hellacious. Right now, I'm vacillating between tears of sorrow and tears of rage. I'm either bawling my fucking eyes out or trying not to murder someone. Of course, it's difficult to wipe my tears since my head is floating about 3 feet above the rest of me in the most nauseating manner possible. I'm having the hot flashes of a menopausal woman, and I've had to type just about every word in this entry twice because apparently that three feet of slack between my body and the fucking weather balloon that is now my head is not the most effective of conduits. DO WHAT I FUCKING TELL YOU TO FINGERS.
And because I'm skipping through emotional fucked-uppedness land, I start wondering what the point of any of this is. What's the point of keeping this blog going? Hell, it's starting to become more of a chore anyway. A chore with no benefits. In the beginning, I had big, stupid dreams of ending up in people's RSS feeds and being something people looked forward to reading every week. Now I'm almost ashamed of what I put out sometimes when I force myself to keep up with my self-instituted posting schedule.
Hell, I don't even LIKE writing some of my posts, which seems really wrong. Somehow I've managed to imprison myself in my own "niche." I decided that I wanted to write a humorous blog, so now every goddamn post has to be written in a "funny" tone. GOD FOR-FUCKING-BID I LET MYSELF WRITE IN WHATEVER TONE I WANT.
So I think I'll go back to letting this be more of a personal blog. I like the idea of still keeping up with a twice a week schedule--because it's good for me to make myself write. I NEED to write on a more regular schedule than "whenever the muse takes me" if I ever want to have any sort of success in any type of writing (which I do). But trying to force myself to be funny, or really anything, when I'm not feeling it just results in crap that people either don't read or are probably sorry they wasted their time reading. If I'm going to put stuff on here, it's going to be stuff I can at least be proud of . . . or stand.
Writing is work, don't ever let anyone tell you it's not.
Here's to this blog and whatever in the hell it becomes. Cheers.