This is Temporary

Usually when a blogger disappears for an extended period of time, the blogger’s return post is all about “Hey sorry, I haven’t posted in a while, but I had been trapped under a heavy piano.”

So let’s just assume that’s where I’ve been and get to it.

I’ve always said I wanted to write a novel.

I usually say this after binge-watching TV. Then I continue my streak of writing nothing and go to sleep because tomorrow, obviously tomorrow will be the day I start writing. No more procrastination on “Magic Tomorrow Day!”

Magic tomorrow day arrives and passes uneventfully. I learn that Lifetime is making a behind-the-scenes Saved by the Bell movie so it’s not a complete loss. I’m so excited. I’m so excited. I’m so. . . scared.

Did I write anything?

No, but *insert famous Scarlett O’Hara quote*

I will definitely start writing once I lose 10 pounds. Once I remove that extra fat in my head, it will clear up the brain juice, rev up the electrons of smart and words will magically appear in sentences that sound more good.

I failed biology.

There is the laundry. Always the laundry. Where does it all come from? Seriously, I own two pairs of jeans and yet my machine looks like a denim emporium. Could this be the subject of my soon-to-be written novel? The protagonist is a plucky vampire-fighter who falls in love with a zombie preacher, but can’t commit because of the laundry and BRAIINNNNNSSSSS.

Shit, that sucks.

There’s people that write and stuff. I’ve seen it. I’ve even reviewed it. Not to blow my own crumpled party horn, but I review children’s books for a librarararaarain publication. I just reviewed one. It was nearly 300 pages about a sock monkey.

That is not hyperbole.

There were a bunch of sock monkeys actually. They couldn’t really do anything, just had thinking thoughts and that’s the story for nearly 300 pages.

My review was only two words: “shit sandwich.”

But, hey, it’s being published. At least this person committed to writing something–albeit something incomprehensible–and completed the task.

I will write, by gum and never use the words “by gum” again. I swear, by gum.

I keep getting tripped up, that’s the problem. I went away on a “vacation”. A vacation is time to rejuvenate the mind and body, but a “vacation” is when one wishes to be killed by a Chuck E Cheese automaton because how much fucking longer are we going to spend in this skeeball prison? My “vacation” was with my parents and preschool-age son. On my “vacation”, my son told me to “go away” an average of 54 times a nanosecond so if you do the math it’s:  x + go away/chuck e cheese – sanity + endless strip mall = no novel.

Today was the day I was going to start writing. It is July 1st and mercury is in the seventh house of cards or game of thrones, however astronony works. I stared at the computer screen for 15 minutes then watched The Leftovers on HBO on Demand. *spoiler alert: way too much dog-shooting.

I had just about given up when I saw this picture on a friend’s Facebook wall:

I take solace in that sign. Procrastination is temporary. So is writer’s block. So is being trapped under a heavy piano.

While I may not write the greatest sock monkey/zombie erotica tale every told today, I may tomorrow.

Or Thursday. Definitely Thursday.

My Birthday Gift From WordPress

Forty years ago today, I made my arrival into the world.

Little did the world know that nearly 40 years later, that little darling baby girl would write about post about gonorrhea tonsils and see it get Freshly Pressed.

Did the delivery doctor have an inkling? Say when he cut the umbilical cord, that one day that red, slimy, mutant-looking screaming thing would craft a post that not only combined a fear of potatoes with STD-infected tonsils, but would also be able to insert the words “27 vaginas?”

Probably not. That’s kind of a weird thing to think about a baby.

Still this was a nice early present from the WordPress staff.

I promise my new readers that I write about other things besides venereal diseases although tomorrow’s post will make it seem like I just lied.

In fact, I just checked my search engine terms and am intrigued by this idea: chuck e cheese birther.

That seems about right.

Dearest Reader: Speaker7 is attempting to write a post every day in November so she doesn’t have to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). This is the fifteenth post. Halfway there. Lord help us all.  

This Post Will Make You Blush

People hate being embarrassed. I remember reading an article about choking in restaurants. It stated one of the main reasons people died is because they left the table to deal with the choking in the privacy of the restroom so as not to embarrass themselves in front of others with all the gasping and eye-bulging. It embarrasses me that I cannot remember the name of the article or find a link to it.

In 10th grade, I was walking and waving to a group of friends on the front lawn of school. My head was not turned in the direction I was going, and I fell over a bicycle rack. To make it even better, the boy I had crush on witnessed the entire event. I immediately left school and joined a nunnery in the Himalayans. Here’s the kicker: There wasn’t a nunnery there. I was so mortified that I tried to pass myself off as a curvy monk, but my bright red cheeks and excessive sweating gave me away. And I’m not even curvy. Why did I say that? Oh my god. I’m completely humiliated.

Some sciency people say embarrassment is a good thing (is sciency people the right word? What are they called? Sciencers? Sciencence? This is mortifying). It’s a sign of virtue. It shows you can be trusted, and it makes motorists stop when they mistake your bright red face for a stop sign.

So what does it mean if you’re someone who is not easily embarrassed? Does it mean you’re an untrustworthy asshat? The sciency folks could not say for sure, but maybe would look into it in the future.

Well let’s look into it now, shall we. Let’s examine the behavior of one Donald Trump.

Donald Trump cannot be embarrassed. Just look at him:

He knows his hair looks like cotton candy run through a taffy pulling machine then set on fire and extinguished by a pound of cat fur mixed with sawdust.

His hair alone should cause his face to be the color of a fire hydrant. But the reason his face is the color of a fire hydrant is because he’s always blowing hot air out of his yawping maw.

“Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!” he screams like an over-sugared toddler.

He recently blathered some nonsense about Trump steaks. No wait. It was about his many bankruptcies. Nope. I’m wrong again. I’m totally blushing right now.

He said: “Celebrity Apprentice just ended, and I need to be on TV again so how ’bouts I prattle on about President Obama not being a U.S. citizen? Yeah, let’s do that. I’m fired…up. Did you see what I did there? Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!”

See, I would be embarrassed to say something that’s been so obviously refuted that it’s on par with saying something like “Donald Trump is virtuous.”

But that’s me.

Donald Trump said this right before hosting a fundraiser for Republican presidential nominee Mitt Romney. Mitt Romney said he believed Obama was a natural born citizen, which was very big of him. Using the word “believe” means there could be a tad uncertainty about it. Well done.

I believe Mitt Romney escaped from the Chuck E. Cheese automaton band, and is full of ricotta cheese. But that’s just what I believe, man. You can believe your own ride.

I also believe that Donald Trump is actually a robotic megaphone coated in spray tan and axe body spray.

It would explain the inability to be embarrassed.

And the hair.

But what I do know for certain is that he is an untrustworthy asshat.

Science!