ethanol kool-aid

but I WANT to drink the kool-aid

…even if the mothership isn’t coming to take us home and we’ll all be dead in the morning. I’m thirsty dammitt!

Its kind of amazing the difference that writing can make. I mean, the simple act of putting words on the page, it seems like such a small thing, and yet … Writers write because they must; it is not optional. Without the act, something slowly (or quickly) withers, rots, or just disappears. Without the act, the writer is somehow less than… different… un…

 

For the last four years, the only writing I can claim to have done is academic. And while yes, this is still writing, it is not writing, if you know what I mean. Don’t get me wrong, I love research, and am far more intimately acquainted with several academic databases than anyone really ought to be, but somehow my right brain was still feeling very, very sad no matter how often the left brain asked it to insert the term “virtual plethora” into an otherwise ho-hum paragraph. And lets face it people, “virtual plethora” will spice up any reader’s day. Its like the scotch bonnet pepper of descriptive phrases.

And what am I trying to say as I wander around this bush continually whacking it with such ferocity? That I am a little less un than I was before I started this… whatever it is… blog. It’s sort of a journal, but not exactly, as the biggest-baddest-deepest-darkest is still mine-all-mine (and my psychiatrist’s, of course). And it’s not exactly a mommy-blog, since there are no parenting tips, look-how-cute-my-kids-are pictures (although they are, and you would love them, except the best ones are always the naked ones and isn’t that considered kiddie porn?) and not all my posts are concerned with parentdom since that is not my entire life and (call me selfish) I need it that way. Its my life en writ, just like I’ve been doing for roughly the whole of it, except now I’m sharing with whoever wants to look. It reminds of my visit to Amsterdam (now there’s a future post…) and all the working girls in the windows of the Red Light district. So many of them were doing such normal things like sitting in a chair, reading a book, I think I saw one actually ironing. Granted, they were all in various levels of undress and/or interesting forms of lingerie, but still… is was life on display for whoever wanted to peek. Or stare openly. Or ogle with dropped jaws. Or piss on for that matter. Everyone pissed on the streets in Amsterdam. What a city. In oh so many ways. But that’s for another post…

So here’s to writing. To writing: To the Right Brain, the virtual plethora of meanderings done on endless drives along hwy12 in the middle of the night, to ginormous herds of deer who lose their way whilst searching for the elusive Teddy Bear Keggers that are rumored to take place in the ethanol corn fields of South Dakota, and here’s to my sister who harassed me into trying the cyber-crack that is facebook. “C’mon, go ahead. Try it. Just once won’t hurt…”

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