I’m two months in.
Ooops…I just ended a sentence with a preposition. Clearly I haven’t learned punctuation. My grandmother the retired school principal is rolling in her…well, not her grave, since she’s alive. She’d be upset. She’s rolling in her…kitchen? As she makes rum cake (that must be where I get my affinity for liquor, which I’ll delve into at the end of this post).
I have spent sixty days writing. The only other thing I’ve done for sixty days straight, besides work toward my degree(s), is hard-core exercise…which resulted in the demolition of my knee joints. Writing is easy on my body and is the Activia of my soul – purging my dirty insides until I am once again whole. That’s straight-up poetry, right there. Rhyming.
Writing is an interesting thing. It’s a brilliant exercise in self-reflection, like journaling, except that you’re looking in a mirror…and trying to quell the horror of your latest skin abomination, which appears as though someone has cursed all over your face and left zits instead of dirty words. In reality, I’m blessed with a pretty sweet skin gene; the Schweitzer women tan easily and age well. I still end up sometimes having staring contests with unavoidable blemishes (when it rains, it pours).
In this swiftly failing analogy, pimples represent our faults: most of them are self-induced from a naughty habit of letting sleep overtake your will to wash your face before bed. Yet they are manageable. Fixable, even. You just have to work on yourself some. Only a few leave physical scars that end up changing your facial landscape. And by facial landscape, I mean your inner being. Yes, writing is very much a part of a larger self-hygeine regimen for the soul. If you don’t address your faults, you’ll end up with a much nastier issue: wrinkles before 30. By wrinkles, I mean horrible character flaws that result in the demise of your spirit.
That’s what I’ve learned. You were probably expecting a noble, daring, passive-agressive list of garnered knowledge, like how to incorporate junk food into your studio, or how to succeed at technologicalization (which isn’t a word). Admit it. You’re slightly disappointed.
Fear not. I’ll tickle your musical fancy another day, because as a reward, I’m taking a week off. Don’t worry, I’ve pre-written seven posts for this week and set them to auto-publish (even crazy people take breaks). If you need me, you can find me kicking back with an ice-cold glass (notice I said glass, not shot**) of this leprechaun dream liquid:
Evidently, I’m too cheap for Bailey’s. This was 1/3 of the price and twice the size. You can’t tell from the photo, but this is in a literal jug with a handle. Only in ‘Merica.
And no, I’m not even cutting this with almond milk. That would be silly. No, no. I’m “cutting” this with kahlua and a splash of vodka for good measure. Happy blogiversary to the Maven.
That’s all for today ::slurps::
** While the timestamp on this is 10:13am, I did not, in fact, consume alcohol before noon on a Monday. I’m not that sad and desperate. I wrote this on a Sunday evening. While binge-watching Gilmore Girls…**