It occurred to me the other day that I might be wasting my time. I don’t know why I do this to myself, but it always happens. I am literally capable of “thinking things to death.” Everything I do has to have a meaningful purpose. I can’t be content with the simple fact that I like to write and a few people enjoy reading it. I have to overanalyze it until I am so sick of thinking about it that I would rather just move on and catch up on laundry.
I am at a crossroads.
Why am I doing this? What am I trying to accomplish? Who really gives a f*@k anyway?
The fact is, I have no idea what I am trying to accomplish here.
Am I trying to prove I’m a decent writer? Not really.
Am I trying to entertain people? Maybe. I have always been gifted at using sick humor to make people laugh.
Am I trying make a quick buck? I wish. I get paid nothing to entertain you. Just sayin.
Maybe I’m doing it to offer up some sort of life lesson plan based on my own personal experiences as a mom? Good one. (I just threw up in my mouth a bit.)
Believe it or not, I think that I am a good mom. On my best days, I would even go so far as to say that my children are lucky to have me. I have never been good at not being good at something. I have an innate desire to be good at things. The desire to succeed is in my genes. If I can’t be really good at something, I will simply not do it. This is why I will never attempt to parallel park, why I no longer play golf, and also why I have a very difficult time drinking in moderation. Go big or go home. (Wait a minute. I am always home. I never leave. Ever.)
With regard to the whole writing thing, my internal debate is quite obvious. I really love my children, but I also really like to bitch about them. Can I do both and still be a decent person? Is it possible, or do they cancel each other out? I really don’t know. I do know that I am incapable of separating the two, and that I am really good at both. Do I have to choose?
What I do not want to do is obsessively sit and think and/or worry about whether or not the content of my writing is offensive and/or meaningful. Nor do I want/need to be judged for the shit that I write. (Yeah, I’m still not over “that” yet. What a dick.)
My husband reminded me that my initial intention with this blog was to write about “nothing of significance” with the expectation that no one will probably read it. “It doesn’t have to mean anything Jill. Seriously, why do you do this to yourself?” (I think he actually rolled his eyes at me.)
I really hate it when he’s right.
Disclaimer: I bitch about my kids to cope with the daily bullshit. Most mothers don’t put it out there for everyone to read and criticize, but I guarantee you that even the most perfect of moms out there is not perfect. I am quite confident that there are better coping strategies, but for now, I’m going to play off of my strengths and just run with the bitching thing. It works for me. For anyone who feels compelled to judge me, I would like you to pause for a moment and ask that you please try to wrap your tiny little head around the fact that most of my outlandish comments are said in jest and do not require a call to social services for immediate intervention.
Seriously. My kids are fine.