this is my blog. I can post what I want. sometimes you have to remind yourself of that. so if I want to whine about how tired I am, I can. I will. Too often lately I see bloggers critiquing other bloggers for their pettiness. You know those comments. They're the ones that try to belittle the writer by stating emphatically that what he or she is blogging about isn't important.
well fuck that.
when we started this mess called blogging, we were bloggiing to see what blogging was, and mostly, to have fun. The heavy posts were deep because they were a break from the free-for-all link-and-laugh fest that woke us all up and gave us a reason to get out here and show ourselves in the first place. Now there seems to be some kind of unspoken mandate that what we write should be meaningful and relate to "our readers."
again, fuck that.
This isn't a job, it's an adventure.
If I want to complain about how tired I am or how hard it still is to get my kid to sleep, I will. If I want to say, oh no, Jenna woke up with a sore throat this morning--which she did--and feel like crying all over this blog, I can.
If I want to write about driving to Walmart last week with George and Jenna to get printer cartridges, only to get half way there and say, "Uh, George, do you know what model the printer is?" And him slowing, breaking the car, getting ready to turn around so we could go back and look, me turning to Jenna, still 5, for a couple of weeks yet, asking: "Jenna, do you remember the printer model number?"
Parents exchanging looks in the front seat.
Z-22. I think she's right.
And she is.
And we get the cartridge and say, wow, how did you remember that?
I don't know. I just remember seeing it.
And if I want to write about how our minds are so plyable at that age, so nimble and flexible and uncluttered, I can.
And if I want to mourn here that I already see the crap of humanity starting to fill little pieces of her mind, starting to infiltrate those innocent perfect sacred spots, the spots fighting to contain mistaken lyrics to songs sung loudly, to contain bright red printer model numbers, to hang on to the three big fingers she used to draw on the people she makes in her art, or her daddy's locks always sticking striaght up in those drawings, then I will.
And so, if I want to whine here, I'll whine. I don't want to have to be profound. Some days I can come here and say I'm tired as shit, feel as old as dirt, working too hard for what, losing myself again.
some days I come here and post pictures of lingerie barbie and GI Joe.
And I'll come here to look for some joy and games and jokes and stupidity and aimless ramblings from bloggers who remember what it was like.
And I'll continue to do whatever the fuck I want here.
And so should you.