Tons of fun.

Him: You’re no fun anymore.

Me: Yes I am!

Him: Who says?

Me: Kosta. He said I was tons of fun.

Him, skeptically: Really?

Me: Yep. … But I’m pretty sure he was making a fat joke.

(FYI: I’m up to 219.)

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And… go.

Yesterday I stepped on the scale for the first time in I’m-not-sure-how-long (because stepping on the scale ruins my day) and was horrified to see that I weigh more now than ever. 217.six-tenths-of-a-pound-doesn’t-even-fucking-matter-at-this-point.

I was successful at losing weight once before. I got down to my goal: 135 (!!!) but then I got divorced and gained it all back plus some. So chalk that up to just one more reason to hate the guy. (Kidding. Kinda.)

I had a blog the first time, too. It helped. Or, at least, I think it did. So, here I am again. Round two. Hundred and eighty-six. Let’s have some fun.

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Five. Holy shit.

1. Holy shit, it’s August. August.

2. Holy shit, I’m going to be 31 in 29 days. (Where’s the pause button on this thing?)

3. Holy shit, I’ve been blogging for five years. (And one day, but who’s counting?) That’s a whole hand!

4. I did the math and 467 posts over five years is 1.796153846153846. That’s an average of two posts per week! Which, ya know, ain’t half bad. (Let’s all just pretend for celebration’s sake that it ain’t half bad, okay?) I’m practically a regular blogger!

5. I hate it when I get to five and can’t think of anything else.

6. “Holy shit” has lost all meaning.

The end.

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You lose some.

I feel like all I do these days is let people down. And I might talk a good game and use the ole “I don’t give a fuck” convincingly, but truth be told? I care. I really care. I don’t want to hurt people. I don’t want to disappoint anyone. Except none of that seems to matter. “I didn’t mean to” doesn’t apply. Because it’s already done. In a week’s time, I’ve managed to disappoint and/or hurt my mother. My father. My sister. My best friend ever in the whole wide world. My boss. Es. Plural. I have a lot of bosses and I don’t think any of them are happy with me at the moment. I used to do things right. When did that change? When did I start failing life? And why is it that the more I try to make things right… better… the more damage I manage to inflict?

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Afraid.

I’m afraid to make mistakes.

I’m afraid I’ll be alone forever.

I’m afraid to be with you for the wrong reasons.

There were times when I was married that I thought I wish he would leave me. I’m afraid I’ll have that thought about you one day.

I’m afraid that one day I’ll feel stuck or trapped.

I’m afraid to lose you.

I’m afraid that sex has gone and confused everything and neither one of us know which was is up.

I’m afraid we’ll never speak the same language even though we both think we’re doing exactly that.

I’m afraid to date other people.

I’m afraid if I don’t date other people, I’ll always feel as if I missed out on something.

I’m afraid if I don’t date other people, I’ll always wonder “what if?”

I’m afraid I’ve read too many romance novels and ruined myself.

I’m afraid to trust myself.

I’m afraid I’ll always question my feelings.

I’m afraid I’ll never be able to make up my mind.

About anything.

I’m afraid I’ll feel depressed and anxious forever.

I’m afraid things will never be the way they were.

I’m afraid I’ll never feel carefree again.

I’m afraid I’m losing my best friend.

I’m afraid I’ve already lost you.

All because I’m too afraid.

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It’s time to start writing again.

Something.
Anything.
Every.
Single.
Day.

And, no, this isn’t one of those posts where I go on and on about why I don’t and why I should and how I’m going to blah blah boring blah.

In fact, this isn’t even about blogging.

This is about writing.

About wanting to write.

And that’s all.

And it starts with throwing away my ridiculously high standards for myself.

And just.
Fucking.
Writing.

This is going to seriously cut into my reading.

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An adventure

Yes, an adventure. And one I took all by myself. Which isn’t saying much except that I lost cell coverage during most of it so obviously it was extremely dangerous.

Last Sunday I was on my way home from visiting my sister when I decided to detour to Lake Mead. On all the drives to and from my sister’s home in Utah, during all the visits to Vegas, I had never once seen Lake Mead. It didn’t look like it was too far out of the way so what the hell? That’s my motto most days. What the hell. It’s the more sarcastic and disinterested version of “you only live once.”

What was supposed to be a “quick” detour to visit a lake turned into a four hour drive through a state park, then a national park, a visit to the lake, and, finally, a stop at Hoover Dam. None of which I’d ever seen before.

I was posting (less than stellar) photos on Facebook along the way. And no one seemed to care. And when I say “no one” I mean my mother. My mother didn’t care! Her daughter- who, sure, may be thirty, but still!- was driving alone through the wilderness! With no cell coverage! And a car that was in desperate need of new brakes! (The brakes thing might have been my own fault and has since been rectified, I’m happy to report.)

When I brought it up and asked how she could possibly not care about the harm that could befall her (30-year-old) baby in the wild, she argued that my Facebook posts hadn’t been clear. And when I explained in more detail about just what an adventure I had been on, she replied with, “wow, how boring.”

My mother would only survive the same adventure if someone else were driving and she were able keep Facebook-ing. (No, seriously, that’s what she does now. She sits in the passenger seat with her laptop on her, well, lap and Facebooks.) I, on the otherhand, enjoyed the peace of (at times) being the only person around for miles with only Mumford & Sons to keep me company. (If I’d gone on the same adventure a month ago, my only company would have been Taylor Swift.)

I arrived home that night after driving for what felt like forever but was really only 10 hours. (10 hours!) I was in a weird state of exhaustion where my body was in desperate need of sleep while my mind was wide awake and ready to tell whomever would listen all about my adventure. Unfortunately, I think I’m the only one who really considered it an “adventure” at all. Apparently, to the masses, I did some sight-seeing on my way home NO BIG DEAL.

And honest? It really wasn’t a big deal. Except that it was probably the first real spontaneous thing I’ve done alone and just for me since you know. And my mom and I aren’t very similar and I had a blast. The end.

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