Is it possible for me to sit here and barf up some words really fast, just let a bunch of shit gush right out of my brain and onto my keyboard, without obsessing over every word and totally ruining it?
No. It’s not. I’ve already edited the above sentence three times. (Eight if you count the time I came back through for a proof read and couldn’t stop picking at it. FINE, 12. 12 times. Okay. I’m done now.)
Anyway, I have no idea how it happened, but I spent the last hour or so getting sucked into the vortex of my own blog. I was like, “DAMN, I used to be funny. I should write some shit.” Then I was like, “No one gives a fuck, Kristen. Seriously, no one gives a fuck.”
But maybe you do. Either way, I gotta write something. So…wanna know what I’ve been up to?
Writing a novel. For two damn years. I don’t like to talk about it too much because
- That would mean I would have to talk about it.
- I don’t want to get everyone all pumped and then have the book totally suck and everyone be like “damn, she talked a lot of shit about this lame-ass book.” *UNLIKE / UNSUBSCRIBE / LEAVE SCATHING AND UNNECESSARILY CRUEL REVIEWS EVERYSINGLEPLACE*
- I’m scared you’ll see how much it means to me.
- It would be awful to discover that something that means so much to me means absolutely nothing to anyone else.
- Fuck, now I’m crying.
I went on vacation last week. Who doesn’t need a vacation, right? Everyone needs a fucking vacation now and then. I’ve been working part-time from home as a social media manager since last June and haven’t had a day off since I started. Not even weekends. It’s a damn good job, though, and I can–and often do–perform it in my pajamas. On a shiny new Macbook Pro.
And that damn novel. I’m tired, man. Like everyone else. We’re all tired, I know. Anyway, I took this vacation, for six days. And you guys know I have anxiety, right? <<< I’m supposed to hyperlink something here to one of my anxiety articles so you can go get up to speed on my stupid anxiety. But I’m not gonna because I’m a rebel like that.
You know what I’m most anxious about?
I know I’m supposed to be scared of big things, like that my house will burn down or that my kids will get hurt, but really I’m most scared of looking stupid. I’m a terrible human being.
The interesting and ironic thing about being absolutely petrified of looking stupid is that ANXIETY LOBS OFF LIKE 53 IQ POINTS. In other words, being afraid of looking stupid MAKES YOU LOOK FUCKING STUPID.
So whenever I take a break–even a tiny one–from my usual don’t-stop-get-it-get-it routine, I get this feeling like I’m going to drop ALL THE BALLS. I can’t handle the stress, man. I know this. I know I am a person who cannot take her hands off the balls. Because what if I drop one and end up looking stupid?
So we get back from vacation and I’m like “GET ON IT, KRISTEN. GET BACK ON ALL THE SHIT. DON’T SCREW THIS UP. YOU’VE GOT ONE LIFE TO LIVE (isn’t that a soap opera?) AND YOU DON’T WANT TO WASTE IT LYING AROUND RECUPERATING FROM YOUR VACATION.”
But I took a day off. Took Monday off, aren’t I so damn smart, giving myself time to regroup like that? Tuesday was great, back into the swing. All the balls, in my hands. So squishy and malleable. I am the ball squisher. Squish squish.
But yesterday I got the kids to school late because … I dunno. One of the balls was kind of slippery? No clue. But I was all, “DON’T SWEAT IT, KRISTEN, IT WAS ONE LITTLE MISTAKE. YOU’VE GOT THIS. YOU’RE A FUCKING BEAST. NOW GO EDIT YOUR BOOK AND WORK AND COOK ORGANIC FOOD WITH HERBS YOU GREW IN YOUR GARDEN AND DO LAUNDRY AND KEEP YOUR HOUSE TIDY AND TEACH VIOLIN. OH, AND CLEAN THE DOG SHIT IN THE BONUS ROOM, BECAUSE IT RAINED, AND YOU KNOW HOW THAT LITTLE ASSHOLE ALWAYS SHITS IN THE BONUS ROOM WHEN IT RAINS.” I had it together, guys. I was dancing in the shower. Wait, no I wasn’t. I actually forgot to take a shower. (More on that in a minute. Seriously, I won’t forget–I’m trying not to edit here.)
And last night I was working on my book. Last edit before final read-throughs and formatting. Heavy shit, y’all, but can I just tell you what editing looks like? Can I tell you, please? For 30 damn minutes, I was hung up on a word. Not a paragraph. Not a sentence. A SINGLE. WORD. For sex. Do you know how many words there are to describe the in-and-out motion of a penis in relation to a vagina? Okay maybe there are a lot, but…I mean, words that aren’t cheesy, cliche, clinical, or cringingly pornographic? I’m not writing erotica, okay? (Maybe some other time.) But there are a few sexy parts in my book that need some explicit description, and Wednesday night proved to be a real stumper, guys. A real motherfucking stumper. I had to message my friend Mary about words for a penis going in and out of a vagina. Oh, and I forgot to mention, the word had to make it clear that he was hitting her “spot.” I’m not writing that word here, okay, screw you, I’ve said enough. So we came up with
Is this making you horny? Me neither. And I think there were several more, but guys, there just aren’t that many of these words.
THIRTY. MINUTES. ON ONE WORD. So dumb.
And tonight I spent about 15 minutes researching whether “underwear” is singular or plural. Conclusion: It’s a non-count word but is generally written in singular form. So for my whole life I’ve been saying “My underwear ARE on the floor” — PLURAL — (and who wants to analyze what it means that THAT is the first example phrase that popped into my head? Anyone? Bueller?), when I should have been saying “My underwear IS on the floor.” — SINGULAR.
All this time I’ve been talking about my underwear wrong, sounding like a damn moron.
Did I mention I took my kids to school late this morning? Again? Well I did. After that big long conversation about the penis in and out of the vagina I completely forgot to set my alarm. Actually, that is not really so surprising now that I think about it.
But it sucked bringing my kids to school 30 minutes late. It sucked being THAT mom. I hadn’t brushed my hair or put my contacts in, and my clothes were hanging on me all sorts of lopsided, though I did at least remember to slip on a bra really fast, for which the front office staff at my kids’ school will be eternally grateful whether they are aware of it or not. My kids ate bananas and granola bars in the car on the way there. That’s not the worst breakfast ever, is it? Well and my son took his ADHD meds by pulling apart the pill capsule and emptying it into a tupperware and then mashing his banana into the puddle of little balls so he could eat them. And yes, we know he’s not supposed to chew those so please don’t message me about it. And yes, I already checked with the doc if it was okay to break open the pill capsule. It’s the BALLS that are slow-release, not the pill capsule. The BALLS. Stop judging me.
As you have probably already inferred, by lunchtime today I was feeling like a pretty major idiot. That’s when my husband asked me, “So how’d the meeting with the tax guy go?”
Oh, you mean the meeting I didn’t go to? Totally forgot. Had it in my phone. Had a reminder set. Still forgot.
I cried a little this afternoon, about what a dumbass I am. Still hadn’t showered, and was crying just as much for how ridiculous it is to smell the way I smelled–like over-ripe banana, coconut oil, and ordinary body odor–as about anything else. I mean, the shower is RIGHT THERE. JUST USE IT, KRISTEN.
Four days, people. Four days without a shower. (It’s cool, calm your tits, I finally took one. Don’t call … I dunno, the Ghostbusters or whoever.)
So I’m clean now. But I still feel just … really anxious. Like there’s a beehive in my chest, like a whole swarm of them will come shooting out of my mouth, all insistent and angry and totally out of my control.
And I’ll look stupid. It’s the worst, looking stupid. The very worst.
You wanna hear the synopsis to my book? Here it is:
When memories of her traumatic past reemerge, Hazel’s well-meaning husband Oren gives her his blessing to find release by indulging in the fantasy that haunts her right along with her awful memories: an affair with her best friend.