Sunday, August 23, 2009

The junkyard of my brain...

Oh, you haven’t seen nothin’ yet. There is actual garbage in here.

You know what I’m afraid of, really afraid of? That I’m gonna write a bunch of junk and you’re all (assuming there is more than one of you) are gonna laugh your asses off. At me, not with me. At me.

But I made a commitment to write 365 of these things. A very wise woman (my therapist) once told me that the commitments that you honor to yourself create integrity. So I’m gonna be like integrity girl here and even promise I won’t lie on this blog. I’m really gonna show you who I am and I’m scared to death you’re not gonna like it. I got the idea for this blog from watching the film Julie and Julia, it’s an amazing flick. It’s not a chick flick even though it’s about two chicks.

I can’t believe I told all these people about my new and wonderful blog and now I have to perform.

Sometimes writing feels like juggling. Sometimes I feel like a circus animal.

OK totally off the wall random question, who DECIDED that a table was gonna be called a table? I’ve had this question in my mind for so long, who named things? There was no Noah, I mean if you believe there was then like maybe you know I have to respect that, but where did this dreadful language come from?

Anyways, here’s a very bloggy story. (You know I’ve never really read any blogs---what the hell am I doing? People make plans and shit before they do things. I just do things). Anyhow a few years ago, I was sitting at a table at a café with five young celibate priests I met that very night. Oh, you think I have trouble meeting men right? No, no, you are wrong my friend, I have trouble meeting non-priest men. Five. I was flirting with them, it was weird they had what appeared to be sex drives…just in a flirty sense. I don’t remember how I ended up at the table, but I can tell you what I was wearing because I am woman, hear me roar. My pink chiffon shirt that doesn’t fit anymore.

So as I was sitting there…NOTHING HAPPENED!!!!!

I was with five priests, besides their dirty thoughts of converting me, there was nothing sacrilegious about that night.

Sorry the story was so lame.

But it got me thinking, why was I so confident, cool, and witty that night? They say boys will be boys. But it’s like these priests were looking at women like we were these adorned statues that needed to be worshipped. I swear I could feel something like idol worship in their eyes. Like, wow, like a woman is talking to me like I’m just like everybody else. She moves? She talks? So I’m thinking if normal men are staring at Playboy or Internet Porn all day, when they see a real woman, who thinks and has opinions, well is that why they always look so surprised that we’re mad at them for not understanding us?

Did that make any sense? I didn’t think so. Don’t feel like fixing it.

OK, so This is not a Priests are People Too Campaign.

This is a fucking Blog. There I said it, Fuck. I’m sorry dad…. “No daughter of mine will use that language.”

I’m sorry dad, I’m sorry I f--ed up, that you got this f--ed up kid. (It’s the Priests, they want to make you confess, you can see it in their eyes). I know, this is not T.V. I don’t have to bleep it out. I’m trying to respect my father.

My father is blind, so he can’t read this blog and I take advantage of that. I’m sorry daddy. I’m sorry you’re blind. I’m sorry I say bad words sometimes.

You see, the thing is, I should have asked those Priests, if God is so great than why did He make my daddy go blind?

I don’t think Priests are better people than us, but do you think God’s a better being than us? Maybe He’s a lot more like us than we think. Maybe He’s got flaws. Maybe He cries for my daddy too.

We have to think that He’s just like this Great blob of great nothingness, don’t we, because there’s got to be something better out there than this garbage.


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