Writing under my level. I know I am. I've written better stuff. But when I try to write "good" my newest works just come off as boring. Exciting comes off as choppy. Romantic appears to be cheesy or nonexistent. I really need to get into it. Plan.
Damn. I need a new plan.
I feel like an uber villain with my failing plans. I should just spend my day as a plan writer. I could fax them to Lex Luthor with a "prepare to fail" postscript. I'd be like my own superhero, defeating villains by thinking of villainous plans. I have the touch of death for plans (and for lucky lotto tickets). This could seriously work. Anyone have the Joker's e-mail? Or for that matter Batman's? (I would so want him to pay me if I was doing his job--oops, there's my villainy peeking out again.)
The problem with plans is that they're almost like an army of Mary Sues (sorry, if I lost the non-fanficcy crowd with that reference). See plans are so damned perfect. Down to a T. And only I can ruin the plans. Or fate. Whatever. I screw up the plans with my laziness.
My procrastination.
Evil, evil dark sex-god procrastination! DAMN you, you villain. I cannot escape your sweet seduction. So here I am again, led astray into your bedroom we call blog. How could I resist you. Honestly it's too much for one woman. I might have to sleep with your brother, RPG, as well. Or at least give a booty call to your neighbor, Mr. Midnight Snack, or your drooling twin, TV.
Oh, procrastination. You're so afraid of commitment. I should really leave you for Plans and his nice I-keep-a-savings-account-and-a-running-car lifestyle. *Sigh.*
Monday, September 15, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Wow. Family: explain to me how we can hate and desire a concept to such extremes.
Recently, I've had baby fever. Thoughts include, "My kid isn't going to behave that way" "My kid is going to learn to ready by age three" "My kid is going to eat health food and say please and thank you" "Unlike those other kids..." No--I don't want to get pregnant any time soon, and, no, I don't have a perspective sperm-donor. However, at twenty-one, a girl starts to see her former classmates and friends elevate to the level of Mommy/Daddyhood (yes, this is frequent at twenty in my neck o' the woods), and she can't help but think "what if that was me?" Said girl realizes she has baby fever when the "what if" suddenly become a "why not. . ." I think the best way to get rid of this disease is to make sure one of my close friends provides me with a remedy within the next few years. . .Any volunteers?
Over this Labor day weekend, an ice pack was put to this resistant fever, and it came back as a puddle. Let me begin. . .
Oh, the joys of family. In your intermediate family, you'll always have conflict, but if there's one thing that will always take this conflict to a new level, it's the visit of outside family--the kinfolk who owe money, flaunt goods, push off kids, and somehow lead to fights about other family members not even included in the visit. This Labor day weekend, my grandmother and grandfather on my dad's side came down from Illinois, giving a good three day notice in which we could book a hotel a few hours away from our home (this action most likely took away three rooms from hurricane refugees in need). Anyhow, along with my seventy-something gram and gramp are the kids: my adopted aunts ages 10, 11, 14, 17 and my middle-aged uncle (thankfully the rest of the family stayed properly spread across the country). Our little klan totaled to eleven, including my parents and my 16-year-old brother. Guess who was being pulled limb from limb as baby sitter? Right. The 21-year-old. Me. The same as when I was the 15-year-old.
Note the ice-pack mentioned earlier. Funny thing is, I didn't mind it. My parents were a bit annoyed that I was stuck with this duty (especially as they were somewhat out of touch with kids with these particular...mannerisms--my brother and I were different at these ages, by far). But I didn't care. I cared about my little "aunts" falling off the steep bluff at the state park while the other adults were half a mile away at a picnic table. I cared about my brother getting pulled down the mountain with them. I cared about paying attention to kids who either get too much or too little attention due to their number or the age of their adoptive parents. I wanted to spend more time taking care of them, in fact. Ice-pack deceased.
Judging from the worn out expressions on other faces, I was perhaps the only one still wanting to take care of them, to listen, by the end of their short trip. Apparently, I don't have baby fever. I have child-in-general-teen-included fever. Perhaps this is the result of being a sort of second mom to my brother instead of an ignoring big sister with her own life.
So, conclusion? There's no doubt about it. If I'm living, I'll have a kid in the next decade. Maybe a handful of handfuls. There's no turning back now. Birth, adoption, or foster, I want to raise a little life one day, with or without help. I've always known this. What I know now is that I don't care if they turn out perfect or if they turn out to be hyperactive, mood-swinging, whining, kingy, monkey-children with three eyes and green teeth. I just want them to be kids.
Recently, I've had baby fever. Thoughts include, "My kid isn't going to behave that way" "My kid is going to learn to ready by age three" "My kid is going to eat health food and say please and thank you" "Unlike those other kids..." No--I don't want to get pregnant any time soon, and, no, I don't have a perspective sperm-donor. However, at twenty-one, a girl starts to see her former classmates and friends elevate to the level of Mommy/Daddyhood (yes, this is frequent at twenty in my neck o' the woods), and she can't help but think "what if that was me?" Said girl realizes she has baby fever when the "what if" suddenly become a "why not. . ." I think the best way to get rid of this disease is to make sure one of my close friends provides me with a remedy within the next few years. . .Any volunteers?
Over this Labor day weekend, an ice pack was put to this resistant fever, and it came back as a puddle. Let me begin. . .
Oh, the joys of family. In your intermediate family, you'll always have conflict, but if there's one thing that will always take this conflict to a new level, it's the visit of outside family--the kinfolk who owe money, flaunt goods, push off kids, and somehow lead to fights about other family members not even included in the visit. This Labor day weekend, my grandmother and grandfather on my dad's side came down from Illinois, giving a good three day notice in which we could book a hotel a few hours away from our home (this action most likely took away three rooms from hurricane refugees in need). Anyhow, along with my seventy-something gram and gramp are the kids: my adopted aunts ages 10, 11, 14, 17 and my middle-aged uncle (thankfully the rest of the family stayed properly spread across the country). Our little klan totaled to eleven, including my parents and my 16-year-old brother. Guess who was being pulled limb from limb as baby sitter? Right. The 21-year-old. Me. The same as when I was the 15-year-old.
Note the ice-pack mentioned earlier. Funny thing is, I didn't mind it. My parents were a bit annoyed that I was stuck with this duty (especially as they were somewhat out of touch with kids with these particular...mannerisms--my brother and I were different at these ages, by far). But I didn't care. I cared about my little "aunts" falling off the steep bluff at the state park while the other adults were half a mile away at a picnic table. I cared about my brother getting pulled down the mountain with them. I cared about paying attention to kids who either get too much or too little attention due to their number or the age of their adoptive parents. I wanted to spend more time taking care of them, in fact. Ice-pack deceased.
Judging from the worn out expressions on other faces, I was perhaps the only one still wanting to take care of them, to listen, by the end of their short trip. Apparently, I don't have baby fever. I have child-in-general-teen-included fever. Perhaps this is the result of being a sort of second mom to my brother instead of an ignoring big sister with her own life.
So, conclusion? There's no doubt about it. If I'm living, I'll have a kid in the next decade. Maybe a handful of handfuls. There's no turning back now. Birth, adoption, or foster, I want to raise a little life one day, with or without help. I've always known this. What I know now is that I don't care if they turn out perfect or if they turn out to be hyperactive, mood-swinging, whining, kingy, monkey-children with three eyes and green teeth. I just want them to be kids.
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