There’s got to be some explanation for the surge of estrogen I displayed yesterday and this morning. It was enough to grow a virtual thirty-six hour vagina and all the hormone-fueled angst that periodically (pun intended) accompanies one.
Worse yet, I got sand in it. Cartman was right. Scoot over, Kyle, and hand me that Kleenex box and a spoon for my quart of Rocky Road ice cream.
What had me more worked up than a panelist on The View? That nobody *sniff* appeared to be reading my blog. Or my favoriting my tweets. Or loved me or anything I did. Or cared if I lived or died…..
Enough. You get the picture. Spiraling out of control.
In fairness to me (and as my pathetic excuse for an excuse), there was a triggering event and it had nothing to do with this blog or with Twitter.
Any semi-regular reader of this Bleep is likely familiar with my Dad’s situation, chronicled in The Donut Nazi. Yesterday morning, I had an ugly confrontation with* (*I yelled at) my Dad because he phoned me at work and made a silly and self-centered request, one easily satisfied later but which he obviously thought I would drop everything to fulfill. This was followed by an equally silly and self-centered phone call attempt to guilt-trip me for not dropping everything. So what did I do? I dropped everything and brought him the Coca Cola that had become The Most Important Thing In His Life. And bawled him out for seeing my only function to be his personal errand boy.
I was upset. But I was more upset about getting upset. Having this tumultuous drama that wasn’t going to resolve any time soon, I focused my negative energy on another task.
Growing my virtual vagina.
Two days earlier I posted what I thought was one of my better posts, which I typically link on my Facebook fan page and on my Twitter account. And one which I perceived got virtually no response. So pre-Dad-confrontation, I had directly asked people via tweet for feedback.
But in my post-confrontation-sandy-vagina state of mind, I took it seventeen steps further. I wrote another blog post lamenting, among other things, that I was doubting my talent because nobody seemed to like me. I wasn’t popular enough on Twitter or here, so obviously I sucked. Time for another box of Kleenex and this time a quart of butter pecan.
By this morning, I even threatened (complete with “Closed For Repairs” sign) to shut down for a while and, well, sulk.
Fortunately, it took my good friend Melysa, the fabulous author of Sex, Lies and Bacon and Social Media Manager for The Printed Blog and Kumbuya — and a bona fide vagina owner — to suggest that my natural apparatus was not well suited to my current behavior.
Well, actually she reminded me, and I quote: ”Popularity doesn’t make you a good writer. Exceptional writing does. Always remember that.”
I remembered why I write…which is for ME…and my virtual vajay disappeared and I regained my composure (and my sanity).
Sure, ultimately I want to write for other people, too. And there are people out there who believe what I do is good enough for that. With some luck and some diligence, maybe one day others will, too.
I was acting like the class Valedictorian who believed she was stupid because nobody was voting for her to be Prom Queen.
Just as well. I looked pretty stupid in that red gown.
- Repaid For His Deed
- The Blessing
- Five Reasons I Know Hell Exists
- Bondage Haiku
- Pigs Don’t Know Pigs Talk Funny
- Everything Old Is New Again
- Forever And Then Forever Again
- We Are Not Ourselves
- The Road Most Taken
- A Bloody Lip
- Follow Someone
- Upside Down
- My Thirty Six Hour Vagina
- Where Are The Elephants?
- A Titleist, An Asteroid and Stacy
- Lemmings Anonymous
- We’ve Got To Stop Meeting Like This
- The Donut Nazi
- You’re Not The Boss Of Me
- A Priest, A Minister and a Rabbi
- (Bleep) Flows Downhill
- Light At The End Of The Tunnel
- A Thousand Squirrels
- Urinal Roulette
- The El To Paradise
- A Can Of Gumout
- My Penis Lies Over The Ocean
- Grandpa’s Last Stand
- Waldo Meets His Bleeping Match
- A Bran New World
- His Highness, King Me
- Flying In Formation
- Calculating America’s Future
- Don We Now
- Curse You, Soy
- Who am I? (and am I listening?)
- At What Cost