Oh Lord…

8 more days of posts to write.  8 more days of funny to bring.  8 more days of ideas to squeeze out of my mind.

Really?  I don’t think this ol’ betty has got 8 more days – even if we all got together and prayed really hard.  (Not to mention that it would be really selfish of me to ask y’all to pray that I write good blog posts for 8 more days in a row when we could all be wishing for much more important things.  Like world peace.  Or for a united nation, no longer torn apart from politics.  Or the end of those really annoying radio commercials in which two people talk to each other in a “nonchalant” kind of way in order to repeatedly tell us a phone number to call.  “What number did you call, Betty?  Was it 888-your-mom?”  “Yep, 888-your-mom.”  “You said 888-your-mom, right?”  “You’ve got it, Norma!  888-your-mom!”  Yeah. That. Lets pray to end that.)

Anyway, regardless of praying, today I am low on interest and feeling burnt out.  And now, while I really do like her posts and love how she runs NaBloPoMo, Melissa had to go and have this to say…

“You’re participating in NaBloPoMo, which means you need to drag yourself to the computer whether you want to or not. I know that sitting down in front of the screen is hard, but I promise you, you’ll feel better once you do it. It’s like exercising: sometimes it hurts to pull on the shorts and sports bra, you sigh loudly as you drive to the gym, and you pretty much want to cry when you step onto the treadmill. But you feel so damn good when it’s over that you can almost forget that you need to go through this again the next day.”

…which made me want to throw my laptop at her.

I mean, for me, most of that is accurate.  Drag to the computer? Check.  Sigh loudly as I drive to the gym?  Check.  Cry on the treadmill?  Hell yes that’s a check.  Feel so damn good when it’s over that I almost forget all this pain?  Um, hells to the em effin no.  Not at the gym, and not when I’m writing.

Sure, sometimes it comes easily.  Sometimes I can laugh and write really easily and tackle that elliptical like it’s my bitch.  Hell, I can even be thankful I worked out/wrote from time to time.  But, around day 18 or so, blogging gets to be a whole different kind of beast.

This is more how I see it:

Moms, do you remember when you had your baby, and you saw it’s smiling cooing little bald head, and then your raging hormones made you forget about all the pain the little bundle of joy just caused you?  You forgot about the fact that at least half a dozen people saw your junk all in the air doing things that really shouldn’t humanly be possible.  You forgot that you pushed a semi-alien life form outside of a tiny whole in your body that shouldn’t have allowed even the smallest bit of that baby out under normal circumstances.  You forgot how much that really flipping sucked for the next few days while you bled uncontrollably or had never-ending pain in your nethers or how you couldn’t stand without yelping or how you couldn’t even freaking poop.

Well, now…you know how that same child stayed up all night long crying and not sleeping just because it freaking could?  And how that child threw a tantrum in the middle of the grocery store when you were surrounded by what felt like hundreds of other judgy moms?  And how that same child pushed every single one of your buttons and then it said something like, “you don’t do anything for me, MOM!”

And do you remember, how at those exact moments, every single horrific ache and pain came flooding back to your memory and you were all like, “OH HELL TO THE MUTHA FRACKING NO!  I SURE AS HELL DID BIRTH YOU, AND I HAVE THE VAGINA/STRETCH MARKS/PTSD TO PROVE IT!”

Yeah, that’s how I feel about writing.  Sometimes I enjoy what I wrote.  That baby is fresh and new and smells like powder and nurses easily and has the cutest little non-poop-stained onesies to wear.  Sometimes I re-read that post and think I did a good job and that I could do that again, easy peasy.  And that my next post would come out of me like like rainbows out of a unicorn.  Beautiful, poetic.  Awesome.

Other days, writing is like birthing a small elephant.  It hurts and it’s hard and the elephant smells horrifically bad and leaves nothing but giant loads of crap in it’s wake.  And afterward, I think it would be better for everyone involved if I were to pay my cat to walk across the keyboard instead of me trying to do it all over again. Because that post was lame, poorly written, and just plain bad.

Yeah, that’s how I feel about writing.  It a nutshell.

But, just for the record, I’m hoping the next 8 days will be less elephantine, and much more rainbows and unicorns.

Fingers crossed.