Everyone has stuff, that makes them THEM. This “stuff” can be a particular style of dress, cooking, knitting, crocheting, painting, roller derby, religion, video games, the Renaissance Festival, Furry conventions, whatever, we all have our stuff that we do that we enjoy that at some point becomes more of a way of life than just a hobby. It’s that thing you do that you think about all day at your boring, unsatisfying, unrewarding job, the thing you save all your pennies up for, and the thing you “can’t wait to get home and do”.
When I was a kid I would try anything and everything in order to find what made me ME, not realizing that I already had some pretty amazing talents like crocheting, being funny, making up songs, farting unabashedly in public and being more weird (aka authentic) than anyone else you know. But for years I searched and hunted until, one day, I found me, the inner me, my inner child, my id, whatever you want to call it, it was sunning its ass via a rectangle cutout on the backside of a tacky sundress and laying on my lawn, kicking it’s feet in the air and grinning up at me as if to say “Where have I been all your life? Right here, mother fucker! Right in front of you the whole time.”
…I dunno, the inner me is way more weird than the outer me, I guess…
Anyway, she told me we hate blogging. Wait, wait, let me clarify. We love blogging like this where we’re being us and doing what we love and swearing a lot for emphasis and things, but we hate trying to keep up with all the little prissy stay-at-home moms who seriously have nothing better to do than find new ways to make their own butter. I want to make my own butter too, but I have a fucking job and a life and thus I do not have time for making my own goddamned butter. I’ve cataloged all my fun recipes for homemade soap and whatever for the day when I do have that much time, but for now my soul burns with hatred and jealousy. So stick it, moms, stick it where the sun don’t shine ’cause I’ve got a life. Don’t hate.
I started this blog with the intention of posting about all the crochet shit I was creating, but you know what? Crocheting takes a fucking eternity! And while I’m sure that I could take cute little instamatic pics of my progress, I don’t fucking want to because (again) I have a life and a job. When I get home I want to eat, snuggle with Sweets, watch X-Files all night until my eyes start to bleed and I’m afraid to look out the darkened windows while I crochet or pin shit on Pinterest or take turns with Sweets investigating each others naughty bits; “I think… yep, yep… that’s an elbow. You got a lower lip over there and oh! an upper one too, how nice and are those teeth? Man, you’re amazing.”
I wrote this post not just as a rage dump and not just to talk about how important it is to be ourselves or whatever, but because as much as we want someone else in the universe to accept us, the universe is full of crazy people who don’t care about you, so why bother with them? No one is going to work as hard to ensure my happiness and my your goals to fruition as me, so I’m getting to know myself well enough to know when I’m starting to compromise myself and my happiness for someone or something that probably doesn’t deserve it. Everyone else? Kick ’em in the shins.