If a cow ever got the chance...

Busy and scared lately. Doing escapist things like playing the Sims a lot--so much that C and I now live in a mansion and make $2400 a day, and D. N. Resuscitate has maxed out his Creativity skills. And watching The Apprentice, and reading dumb magazines.

Do you know that I barely even have paper in my house? Post-it notes, yeah. Which I mainly use to make grocery lists and to write down the names of people that I must, must make myself call, and reminders to water the plants. Other than that, there is one Mead wide-ruled notebook in my desk drawer. I've had it since the summer after college and over two-thirds of the pages are still empty. The used pages were torn out at various points to make the aforementioned lists when I couldn't find Post-it notes.

Writing was something I loved so much, or thought I did. Maybe I just wanted to use it for minor fame, or uniqueness. It doesn't make sense, even to me, that I could have abandoned it so completely.

Went out to lunch a few days ago with my mother and assorted ancient relatives. My great-aunt loudly discussed sending the corn chowder back because she thought it tasted like creamed corn from a can, with a few chunks of red pepper added--"but that's OK because I happen to LIKE canned corn!" She's a well-meaning person. Everyone in my family is ridiculously aggressive--even though in half of us (the hermit types) it looks like the opposite. (Rest assured, we are judging you. That's why we haven't said anything since the appetizers arrived.)

Anyway, the highlight of lunch came when my mom left for the bathroom and they all started in about my job, and how boring it sounds, and what a good writer I used to be, and my great-aunt asked, "Are you still writing?" and I had to say "No, not really." and she gave me this appalled look over her glasses and said all sadly, "But you must still have stories left in you..." and when I didn't answer: "Haven't you got any stories in you?" (Another endearing family trait is making obnoxious and unanswerable statements, to be repeated at ever-increasing volume until your victim is forced to say something. We are all terrible people, or maybe I just shouldn't go home for Easter with raging PMS.)

I'm scared to write, except in here where it doesn't really count. (And even then not much--I will break the 200-entry barrier someday though.) I try asking myself clever therapist questions like "What are you REALLY scared of when you say you're scared of writing?" and all I get from myself is inarticulate fearfearfear, and then I think what a stupid luxurious bourgeois problem this is, and I go have another Scotch and flip through my vegetarian cookbooks. It's a hectic life.

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