Chapter Eighty Six; Summoning My Hella Wordy Girl Powers

I hate this.

I hate it when the screen is blank and there are a million different directions I could go. It’s not really writer’s block; it’s more like writer’s overflow. Oh, and don’t mistake this admission for bragging. Oh, no. In fact, I think I’d almost take a shot of block once in a while as opposed to the cocktail of ideas that are all smeared together in my brain, raising their hands yelling, pick me! Oooh! Ooh! Pick me!

Should I write about this? What about this? Oh, that was hilarious this week, what about this? Or maybe this other thing that was very insightful bordering on profound? Perhaps I could share that?

Hmmmm.

Point blank?

I am just a hella wordy girl.

What can I say?

The truth is this blog is a ton of fun but at times I feel a little overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people who read it and why they read it. Don’t get me wrong, I love you. You complete strangers who stop me in the grocery store, grab my arm, and announce my own name to me as if I was unaware of my own identity, and then reverently proclaim:

“I. Love. Your. Blog.”

That’s cool as hell. I confess.

Some of you read my stuff because you find my life entertaining, some of you are going through difficult times and find me inspiring (which you must know I do find oddly baffling because I am just as lost and insecure as everyone else), some of you probably just read it because you know me personally and feel some sense of obligation. (Mom. Yes. I mean you.)

I honesty try not to think about why people read me. I don't want an arrogance attack. But I will confess that a few months ago a friend emailed me that she knows a woman whose husband has terminal cancer and that that woman reads my blog every week for a much needed escape.

Oh yeah, no pressure.

I try to just accept these reality jolts as the compliments they are. And feel blessed that my talent for being a weirdo makes people laugh. Or that my reflective moments have inspired others to contemplate their own blessings. And that even when I have shared my humiliation, it somehow makes other people feel better to know that this chick trips over her own humanity quite often too. (Well, forget tripping. Usually its more like a road rash inducing face plant. Oh yeah. That's gonna leave a mark.)

There's just no get outta jail free card when it comes to navigating life. Sometimes its funny. Sometimes its serious. And sometimes its a stupid self-inflicted mess that requires Puffs Kleenex with lotion.

Oh well.

And so. I just write. Whatever the flip floats to the top first. Basically.

For the most part.

(I do have to edit. Good gawd I’d have no friends if I didn’t.)

And so tonight, I just have too much “possible topic soup” in my brain to even pick one. So I am writing about how I am not picking anything to write about.

Call me the Jerry Seinfeld of blogging. The slackiest of the slackers. The woman who put “pro” in procrastination. (Actually, that doesn’t work. I’m not putting it off. I actually am doing it. Make that the girl who put the “ass” in half-ass.)

And what do you know? I’m at roughly 500 words.

Ta da! That blank screen is now full.

My hella wordy hasn’t failed me yet.

(Although I’m not sure successfully writing about nothing is a plus? I suppose the next time I make it through the produce aisle without being recognized, well, then I’ll know.)

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I never actually heard anyone use "hella" in a sentence before until I met SNLM. Sure, I'd heard No Doubt sing, "You've got me feeling hella good so let's just keep on dancin'" but I didn't think anyone actually said it in real life. (Clear illustration that I should be applying for social security.) The first time he said it I thought to myself, "Did he just say hella? What the hell is hella?" And I realized...I am officially old and so not cool. So my putting it in my blog is just my borrowing his coolness. Any apparent coolness you may have detected is a total and utter lie. I'm a bore. Now, where did I put that Social Security application . . . oh, right here, next to my dentures and knitting . . .