Hey, so remember that A-Z challenge I was going to do?
I totally didn’t do it! Fuck yeah!
Normally, I would feel bad about not doing something I said I would, but I surprisingly don’t in this case. Not even a little. I had every intention to do the challenge, and even had a few posts nearly ready to go, such as these little nuggets of wonder:
A-Achromatic Asshole. An uplifting and insightful look into the wild and wacky world of anal bleaching.
B-Bicyclist Bullshit- A wonderful piece about my hatred for the bicyclists I encounter on my morning commute and their lack of respect for drivers and long term effects of sudden death.
C- Corpulent Coffee- a look inside my fatty mug of caffeinated awesomeness.
D- Dorkin’ Diddles- … no clue where I was going with that one.
SO ON AND SO FORTH.
(I still have intentions of posting these at some point)
I have lots of reasons why I didn’t do it, none of which include anything awesome like being randomly selected to travel to Ireland where I got to explore neat castles and sight see and drink Guinness with leprechauns for a few weeks, and it certainly wasn’t due to a spontaneous scuba diving trip where I found an underwater portal that lead to the eighth dimension and I got lost but it’s cool because I saw some really neat spiritual shit and I’m very enlightened now. Of course these things didn’t happen. There’s no such thing as
vacations leprechauns, though now that I think of it, I sort of wish they did exist. Especially ones that were down for a few pints of Irish brew, ’cause I bet they’d be hilarious to drink with. With their little hats, and high pitched voices and their magical shenanigans.. just THINK of the possibilities. Side note, I should totally befriend some ginger midgets so I can dress them up in little green outfits and top hats, then I could take them to bars with me and tell everyone that if they buy us drinks then they will have seven years good luck, and they would probably go for it because LOOK AT MY FUCKING LEPRECHAUN. Then I would never have to pay a bar tab again and people would automatically assume I’m a neat person because of the company I keep.
But I digress…
I have a few legitimate reasons for not doing the challenge:
1. I was really fucking tired.
Not in a “oh boy, it’s 9:04pm and I sure am sleepy! Time to hit the hay and get a respectable amount of sleep, ’cause I’m a grown up!”. Oh no. This was an, “excuse me while I take off my pants and slip into an afternoon coma followed by a short nap before I cook dinner then go to bed before I go to bed” tired. An “I don’t have the strength to pick up this hair brush and can someone please tell me what day it is” tired. A, “leave me alone, LIFE, I would like to go lay down for a month” tired. I get these awful bouts of fatigue from time to time, and they like to bludgeon me into a fuzzy-headed, unfunny pile of human mush. Seeing as how this has accidentally morphed into a sort of ‘humor blog’, I can’t very well be posting incoherent nonsense about sleeping a lot, because lets face it, there’s nothing funny about excessive napping.
I am feeling much better now, but it ruined a large chunk of my month. I tried to write as much as I could for the challenge, but didn’t get very far because:
2. Being structured sucks.
I fucking love writing. I write as often as I can. Sometimes it’s just little thought-sneezes onto a napkin or my mental chatter scribbled into a notebook. Those will, on occasion, morph into blog posts, so long as they’re not terribly dumb or personal. Other times it’s something akin to a brain-baby, birthed from the odd and brightly-colored womb that is my brain’s, um, uterus. Those are little bundles of literary joy that I keep hidden in my computer, saved for a book that I hope to write one day.
Whatever it is, be it a tiny blurb of mental nonsense spewed onto some paper or brilliance hatched from the deep, amusing, and slightly sticky no-no places of my brain, they are always random and never come out when I’m actually sitting in front of my computer with a few minutes of quiet time. Much like an actual sneeze, these sorts of things cannot be forced, I’m learning. Have you ever tried to force a sneeze? I have. Sneezing is a lot of fun and a very satisfying two-second pastime which NEVER occurs when you try to force that shit to happen. This can be incredibly frustrating when you feel that deep-in-your-sinuses tickle that you want oh-so-badly to relieve. SAME GOES FOR WRITING: The itch will be there and it’ll stay there and come out when it damn well pleases, which is usually when I’m at work or child-rearing or driving or at the grocery store or talking to normal people or some other terribly inconvenient time and place for projectile brain snot to occur.
3. I don’t like being told what to do.
Even when I’m the one telling myself what to do.
Here is an example of an actual conversation that took place entirely in my head:
Me: “Okay, April 1st is in a few days, lets get that anal bleaching post all filled in and polished so we can get on with the rest of the alphabet”
Brain: “How about… no? And fuck you.”
Me: “Erm, that’s not how this works. First of all, NO, fuck you, and second of all, we have agreed to do this challenge, and the rules are to follow the alphabet and post it on the day it corresponds with”
Brain: “I know how it works, I’m not a fucking moron. Plus, I didn’t agree to do the damn challenge, YOU did. Your bizarre need for mold yourself into a structured individual has no impact on what I do or how I will behave. Plus, I’ve been really itching to get balls deep into my thoughts on old ladies who wear zebra print. I would rather write about that instead, and I will keep flashing images of the elderly being sexy in zebra striped thongs until you give in”
Me: “Now that’s just terrible… and that would likely start with the letter Z and we need to do A first. We only have a limited amount of time to dedicate to writing each day and we should make sure we go in order so we can get them posted in a timely manner”.
Brain: “Screw your alphabet AND your timely manner. I want to write about old ladies wearing zebra print underwear. DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO.”
Me: “Can you please, for once in our many years of occupying life together, TRY and work with me? JUST ONCE?”
Brain: “Outlook hazy. Try again later. ELDERLY ZEBRA COOTER.”
In conclusion, my brain is a total fucking dick with it’s own agenda. I have little to no say in what gets accomplished when it comes to writing, or much else in life, for that matter.
Also, I might be crazy.