Sunday, 18 September 2016

Oops, I Did it Again

I'm referring more to my prolonged absence, but now I'm singing Britney circa 2000 and it's going to be stuck in my head for days. Does my knowledge of pre-mental breakdown Britney Spears lyrics age me in an unflattering way? I mean, I did just turn 34 years old (frighteningly close to 35, placing me within striking distance of 40 and that is fucking scary). I can't quite decide if 34 is genuinely old, or if I feel that way since my knees have betrayed me with their creaking and cracking. And when did hangovers become such a bitch to get over? In my 20s I assumed I would become such a veteran at over-imbibing, hangovers would be a breeze. Not the case at all. But I digress.

I've been monumentally silent (again, I know) for the last few months. As usual, summer rolled around and life became hectic and I rarely had a moment to sit down with my thoughts, let alone process them in written form and jot them down for you. I also toyed with abandoning the blogosphere (again, I know). I spent the majority of the past eight-ish months yo-yo-ing between apathy and staggering amounts of frustration when it comes to my perpetual search for love (who are we kidding, I've spent the last eight fucking years feeling that way). Yet another post about yet another 30-something woman's struggles in the dating world seemed so...redundant. So I neglected you and went about my summer; flitting from home, to the lake, the Calgary Stampede, to the lake, and back to home sweet home, Saskatoon.

In the midst of racking up thousands of kilometres on my car, my apathy and frustration with dating disappeared. Spending time with family and friends puts things into perspective for me; those amazing humans have a way of soothing my soul and filling my heart. Doesn't hurt when a drunken April (in fine Stampede form, let me tell you) is introduced to an actual man and that weaves its way into an actual relationship. (Like how I slid that in there?) Yes, that's right, there's a gentleman caller in my life, and he's lovely. (Am I playing it cool enough? I'm trying to be laid back; in reality I'd like to litter this paragraph with sappy phrases, heart emojis, and exclamation points...I'm employing a tremendous amount of self-restraint.) However, I didn't sit down to write with the intention of singing his praises (however amazing he may continually prove to be...sorry, it can't be helped, I'm twitterpated).

I did sit down with the intention of figuring out whether or not I should keep writing this here blog. My cyclical notion of deleting the blog stems from a shit ton of self-doubt when it comes to writing (if I can be so bold as to call myself a writer). Much of this blog has been cathartic for me, a way to get those feelings of frustration and apathy out of my head. Inevitably when I sit down to write one thing, a post morphs itself into something completely different - I become aware of what is truly weighing on me. But since I'm insanely self conscious about what I toss out into the writing atmosphere, I constantly second-guess myself and assume it's shit and I should stop. Part and parcel of the writing process, right?

I have decided not to let the demons win.

I don't quite know what that means. Some things might not be very funny, or very good. It's possible not everything from here on will be about dating/love/relationships/etc. Who knows what will work its way out of the woodwork of my mind. I might reach into the past and share some epic break-up stories I wish were only make believe. I might ask for suggestions, or I might pick one of the many unfinished posts lingering on my computer and finally fucking finish one. Or two. Who knows.

What I do know is the urge to write keeps rearing its ugly head, and I don't think I should ignore it...yet.


P.S. - Currently in rotation, The 1975. This song, in particular, pairs incredibly well with solo apartment dance parties. Also, it successfully removed Britney Spears from my head, so, you're welcome.


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