Blank Screen

The hardest thing about writing is the beginning, not knowing where or how to start. If I’m being honest, half the time, I don’t even know what to say. I guess the hardest part about writing is actually doing it. I don’t think I was meant to write, but the problem is, I really want to. I have more notebooks than any one person needs, full of crisp, blank pages. I obsessively sit in front of my laptop, drawn to the little Word 2016 icon, but when I open it up, it’s just an electronic version of my dust-collecting notebooks. I stare at the blank screen, and it stares right back. Uninspiring, but so full of judgement.

This has been a struggle for the past several years. I feel empty without writing, but I feel too empty to write. If things were going terribly, I suppose the words would flow as freely as my tears would. If things were wonderful, I’d likely be dripping inspiration. But life is just good; a tad dull and a lot regular. Not that I’m complaining, but who wants to read about regular?

A few years back, the words flowed a bit more freely. I had just discovered blogging, and it was love at first write. Writing, being read, and reading…being part of a community. It felt like family. I can’t remember when or why, but suddenly, it wasn’t the same. Weeks turned to months, and then to a year with nary a thing to say. I had made peace with the void. Then nostalgia kicked in. That bitch.

They say practice makes perfect. I’m not too sure, but I’ll keep on practicing. Maybe it’s a form of therapy. Or lunacy…writing with nothing to say. Maybe I just like the tapping sound of the keyboard. It’s new and shiny, and boy, does it sound lovely. Tap, tap, tap, nothing to say, tap, tap, tap. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see if this turns into more than just rambling. In any case, there isn’t a blank screen staring at me now, so I think I’m onto something.

~Lily~

Rules (And Taxes) Can Bite Me

How does a person become the rule maker? Because I want to be that person. Current rule makers are busy making rules that are retarded as fuck only serve to annoy people and make them do more work than necessary. Renewing your license, for example. Why must we fill out that stupid form (every time!) and bring 6-points worth of documents with us? It’s not like those documents actually prove that we know how to drive. (Yeah, because my being born really proves that I’m a responsible driver.) Then when you complain, all you hear is, “Sorry, but those are the rules…” That’s  the worst excuse in the world. Somebody MADE UP those rules, and they could easily unmake them if they weren’t such a giant butt-hole.

Buying a house is a great example of how much rules suck. Now that we’re considering buying a house, (because paying rent is the equivalent to throwing your money out the window on a windy day) we’re realizing just how annoying all these rules are. Why can’t you just find a house, make an offer, mortgage approved, sign, and be done with it? That’s complicated enough without all the back and forth, figuring out your budget, attorney/Realtor costs, inspection/appraisal costs, closing cost, other costs that they sneak in there, plus making sure the house has all the necessary C.O.’s. What the fuck? I thought there was only one C.O. Now I find out that if you finish a basement, you need a permit. If you add a garage or extend the bedroom or add a fucking window, there’s a permit for that shit too.

Why do you need permission to make a house better? Oh right, because even if you pay it off, the damn thing is never yours. You’ll pay taxes for the rest of your life, which is basically just a slightly lower mortgage. Why are we forced to pay taxes? Is it because those are the rules? You must pay taxes until you die. But only because they haven’t figured out a way to charge taxes on the other side. Do you realize that with cars and homes, we pay more in taxes than the car or house is worth? If the land is just sitting there NOT doing anything, why do we need to pay $5,000 – $20,000 for the grass that just happens to sit around the house? Because the money funds the schools? FIND ANOTHER WAY TO PAY FOR SCHOOLS!

This post was only supposed to be about how much rules suck, but then I realized that taxes suck even harder. And not winning the lottery sucks the most. Because if you win the lottery, you don’t have to worry about how much to put down while still leaving enough money for attorney/Realtor/closing costs, AND leaving enough for house repairs and/or an emergencies. Not to say that money fixes everything, but…yeah, it kinda does. So fuck.

~Lily~

Talking To Yourself

Talking to yourself doesn’t make you crazy. We are all guilty of this. And if you think you’re not, then you’re a liar. I don’t necessarily talk to myself (out loud) but I definitely think to myself. Or sometimes whisper. Usually I’m home alone when I do this, so I’m not embarrassing myself. Not that there’s anything to be ashamed of, because talking to yourself does not make you crazy. (Just keep telling yourself that…out loud.) HOWEVER, when you talk/whisper/think to yourself in a foreign accent, now THAT’S crazy. I don’t know how this little habit of mine got started. It’s never just one accent either. It can be British, French, Southern, or some unknown and completely made-up accent. Maybe I’ve always done it, or maybe I only just started losing my marbles. I didn’t realize until just last week, and once I noticed, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. Talking and laughing to myself. Nope, definitely no crazy genes here.

I also tend to make funny faces at myself in the mirror. It amuses me. You’re judging me, aren’t you? It’s not like I do this every day. Just when I’m really bored and standing in front of a mirror. (Basically, every day.) Tell me, do you think I’m crazy? Do you do talk to yourself in different accents or make funny faces? Please say yes, it’ll make me feel SO much better. Or don’t, whatever. I wouldn’t have a public blog full of stupid random things if I was afraid of being judged. So ha! Poor little blog. I used to fill it with semi-amusing thoughts or semi-decent poems, and now it’s not even semi anything. It’s okay though, because at least I can laugh about it…to myself…in a British accent…while making funny faces in the mirror.

~Lily~

Note: Lily’s brain can no longer handle the responsibility of writing a blog. It’s become too much. This is the kind of crap you’re gonna have to put up with until someone can figure out how to fix Lily’s brain. It’s a very risky procedure, so don’t hold your breath.

What Can I Say?

A month later, I force myself to open up WordPress and type something, anything. A month of silence, and rather than coming back inspired, I come back just as empty as before.  Perhaps even emptier. What can I say?

A month later, and not much has changed. Everything is as routine and boring as ever. Is life meant to be this way? Go to work, eat, sleep, and repeat? Shouldn’t there be more to life than that? I have no clue. What can I say?

A month later, and I find myself feeling more bitter every day. A month of double the work, double the stress, and half the appreciation. A month of wondering, is it even worth it? Is this what I want to do for the rest of my life? What can I say?

Maybe in another month or so, I’ll have a new perspective. I’m not always this negative. Despite hating how quickly time flies, a part of me is excited for the new year. Work will slow down, the stress will ease, and maybe I’ll find time for inspiration. Maybe. I have this feeling that something exciting will happen in the near future. A symbolic ring, a promise of forever? Who knows. There’s a glimmer of hope, and something to look forward to. Until then…what can I say?

~Lily~

Help, I’m Trapped In My Shirt

Can someone please explain how it’s possible to put on a shirt, and then not know how the hell you’re supposed to take it OFF? I can’t be alone here. It was a day like any other day. (Pretending to sound dramatic.) I received my online order, and was excited to try everything on. In hindsight, that was very naïve of me. I grabbed the first blouse, but hesitated putting it on because of the lack of stretch. I should’ve known not to take the risk, but what the hell, what’s life without a little risk? Trying on clothes is fun! Well, it was easy enough getting into. While it was on, it looked fine. A little loose, but in a good way, because who needs to see my love handles?

But then…THEN…I decided I should take it off and try on the next top. Makes sense, because when you try something on, you’ll eventually need to take it off. Easier said than done. Maybe I never learned how to properly remove my clothing. Maybe I’m just totally clueless. Or maybe there needs to be a law about all tops having at least 5% elasticity in the waist and shoulder areas, for those of us who are, you know…NOT PERFECT. Because maybe some people have broader shoulders than others, and can’t just gracefully remove the top over their head. Maybe some people can’t bend their elbows awkwardly enough in order to find their way out of the arm-hole. Maybe, asshole, it shouldn’t be so damn complicated to take off a fucking shirt.

Attention, clothes-maker. The removal of one’s clothing should not cause one to sweat, you hear me? Absolutely not. Removal of one’s clothing should also not cause slight to moderate panic attacks at the thought of being trapped in the garment forever, or the thought of having to scissor your way through a brand new shirt. None of these things should happen. EVER. Maybe if I had a perfectly proportional body, it wouldn’t be such a workout to get in and out of non-stretchy tops. Perhaps the clothes were being intentionally difficult, so as to inspire me to work out or chop off my love handles and shoulders. Or maybe none of that should matter, because who the hell are you to judge? Just make your clothes stretchy and forgiving, would you? I should hope this incident will not soon repeat itself. You’ve been warned, evil clothes-makers. So beware. Because, yeah. There’s jack shit I can do about it.

~Lily~

funny-woman-shopping-failure-cartoon

If Time Were Human, He’d Be An Asshole

I have a little time to kill (at work, shh, don’t tell anyone), so I thought, “Why not type to myself?” Why not, because sane people do that all the time. In fact, typing to oneself might be considered healthy. Haha. Okay. So, it’s September. It took me a couple of weeks to face that hard fact, and now all of a sudden, it’s about to be October. Do you know what that means? That it’s officially not summer anymore. It’s officially allowed to be cold in October. Didn’t we JUST do this, like, a couple of months ago? Didn’t I JUST escape to Puerto Rico to avoid part of the winter? Well, here we are again. Welcome to the concept of time…it fucking sucks.

I’m already 25. Shut up. I know you’re gonna say that 25 is very young, but guess what? It’s not. You know why? Because Britney Spears is 31. And I remember buying her first album when she was 16. SHE WAS 16 AND NOW SHE’S 31. That means that 15 years have gone by since then. How have I lived long enough for 15 years to have gone by just like that? A decade and a half. What the hell?! Sometimes I still feel like the 90’s weren’t that long ago, but OH NO, hold up, that was over 20 years ago. WHAT THE HELL?! What have I done with my life in those 20 years? Nothing, because life just keeps going on while I sit here trying to keep track of what year it is. Hey Time, what’s your rush? Slow the fuck down. Some of us want to stay alive for a few more years. And at this rate, I’ll be 50 before I can wrap my head around the fact that I’m no longer 20. Seriously, this isn’t funny anymore. It was cool when I was 12, and I wanted time to fly so that school would end. But guess what, I’m not in school anymore! Because I’m an old fart now. My eggs are drying up inside of me, and I’m still not married, so you’re kind of working against me. Do you think it’s funny that my eggs are rotting? HAHAHA! No, it’s not funny. What did I ever do to you, Mr. Asshole Time? What do you have against eggs?

You know what makes you even more of an asshole? The fact that an individual day (specifically, a day in the office) can go very slowly, but somehow, you still manage to make the years just fly by as if they never happened. AMAZING. I’m beginning to question if all these years did in fact happen. We’re all being robbed. You, my unfriend, are a vicious little thief. I want to grow old with my boyfriend, but I don’t want to grow old tomorrow, so take a chill-pill, Mr. Time! Maybe you should take up reading. There are more important things to do than to ensure that we all die, and die quickly. ASSHOLE.

Hey, look at that. I started off randomly typing to myself, and I ended up yelling at Mr. Time. Clearly, I am perfectly sane. It’s not like I talk to myself out loud like this all the time. Because, psshh, I totally don’t. Psshh…

~Lily~

chickentimeflies

Crickets, Meet Your Maker

Crickets and I have a love/hate relationship. As in, I love to hate them. Almost exactly a year ago, I wrote about a cricket problem. The noise was everywhere, haunting me. I stalked the crickets for days before my shoe finally found them. After they were gone, I could still hear them in my head. That’s how bad it was. I suppose they enjoy coming out to pester me this time of year because…they’re back! Did you know it was cricket season? Thanks for the warning.

I’ve yet to see one inside my apartment, but they’re close. Too close for comfort. Every single day, I see a cricket inside the foyer. (The space between the outside door and my apartment door…that’s a foyer, right?) In the last week or so, I’ve killed a handful of them. I’ve lost track. What the hell is going on with my foyer? Let me tell you, I am damn tired of being afraid to enter my own home! I open the outside door, close it, and before I unlock the second door, I do a cricket/critter check. It never fails, there’s always one. The other day, there was one just over my door. I knew it would jump inside my apartment if I cracked the door open, so I stood there like a moron, waiting for the chance to smack the shit out of it.

Do you believe that it’s bad luck to kill a cricket? Do you also believe in Santa Claus? I think it’s pretty ridiculous to believe that a cricket is good luck, and that to kill it would bring bad karma. If that were true, then I’m cursed! Who died and made crickets special anyway? Crickets are basically deformed spiders. They may not use web, but their jumping skills are not to be underestimated. My handle trembles every time I’m about to smack the life out of a cricket, because, ewww…what if it jumps on me in an effort to escape my shoe? *Cringes* I usually have to take a few swings before I finally nail the sucker, therefore increasing the odds of the cricket jumping on me. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.

I live in repulsion fear of these pesky critters. No matter how many crickets I murder, they keep coming back for more. I think they’re ganging up against me, trying to see how many of them can make it inside my home. I’m doing the best I can, but my boyfriend doesn’t seem to realize how serious this issue is. He left our apartment door open a crack yesterday. OPEN! The opening was large enough for a cricket to squeeze in. Simply unacceptable. I’m going to have to do something about that boyfriend of mine. How can he go on with his life, as if crickets weren’t a true menace to society my sanity?! How does he do it? *Sigh* Don’t worry about me though, I’m strong. I won’t let them win. They will not steal my sanity, not this time! (How can I lose something I never had to begin with? Yes, I just called myself crazy.)

~Lily~

P.S. Yes, I tend to exaggerate.

Not Even Trying

Wow. Talk about lack of trying. I have never gone so long without posting. Two whole weeks with nothing to say. Or more accurately, no energy to bother saying a single thing. To say I’ve felt disconnected from my blog is an understatement. Exactly one year ago, I was addicted to WordPress, and was slowly becoming more popular, which only made me want to blog more. I neglected housework so that I could dedicate more time to writing posts and reading other people’s blogs. At times, I professed my undying love to my computer more often than to my boyfriend. I also occasionally exaggerate. Anyway, the point is, I don’t feel that way anymore. Which would be fine, healthy even, except that I went from one extreme to the other. I don’t care anymore. It started as a serious case of writer’s block, but now, it’s just…who knows. Don’t get me wrong. I still very much enjoy reading other people’s blogs. I just don’t enjoy my own. Maybe inspiration will strike, and I’ll write something interesting that will make me proud. Maybe. Some day. I won’t hold my breath.

How do you cure this thing that goes far beyond writer’s block? How can I force myself to write, and not care how it’s received? I want to write just to write, but I can’t. I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t have a public blog if I was just writing for myself. I want to interact, maybe get a laugh or two out of someone. It’s been ages since I’ve written something that could be considered funny. I want to write something that can touch people, something that might even make you cry. Sometimes I read other people’s blogs and I’m in awe of their talent. Maybe just a little jealous. But see, that’s my problem. I want to do and say all these things, but how can I, if I’m not making any effort? How can you accomplish something if you don’t even try? What a hypocrite. What a lazy little hypocrite. As if a blog post is supposed to just write itself! Silly Lily. I need to go to a writer’s therapy group or something. In the mean time, I’ll just keep not trying. I seem to do that pretty well.

Have a lovely rest of the week. Unless it’s raining where you are too, in which case…BLECH!!

~Lily~

Sir, Did You Just Touch Your Penis?

I don’t particularly like shaking people’s hands. Especially people of the masculine, penis-wielding persuasion. See, believe it or not, there are still people who find it unnecessary to wash their hands after using the bathroom. Can’t fathom how anyone could be that ignorant/disgusting/stupid. Not washing your hands is never okay, but it’s somewhat forgivable for a woman. Usually, there is no need for a woman to actually touch her vagina during urination; that’s what toilet paper is for. And if a woman gets splash-back on her hands, surely good hand-washing would ensue, as women are generally disgusted by splash-back. Men, on the other hand, must always grasp their penis. Not properly grasping their penis would result in an inconceivable amount of splash-back. So, considering that men must always touch their penis, and factoring in how many men couldn’t care less about hygiene, how can one be comfortable shaking their penis-ridden hand? “Excuse me, sir, but did you just touch your penis? You’ll have to excuse me, but I would rather not shake your penis until I’ve gotten the chance to know you.” And truthfully, after getting to know the guy, you’d probably be even less inclined to shake their penis. Heaven knows where it’s been. That’s the truth, from my brain to your fortunate eyes.

P.S. I wanted to see how many times I could mention the word “penis” while still raising a valid point. I think I rose to the occasion. Pun intended. (I hope I didn’t offend any of you. I’ve been having so much trouble writing, that when this thought popped into my head, there was no way I could turn it down.)

~Lily~

etiquette-funny

Settling In

The tortuous office move, that I was convinced wasn’t actually happening, is finally over. No more packing and being temporarily displaced. And I’m happy to announce that my commute isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. In the morning, I can get there in 10-15 minutes. There’s more traffic at the end of the day, but I guess it could be worse. It’s not as fast and easy as my old commute, but all things considered, I can’t complain. Actually I can. (Don’t you know me at all?) The parking lot at this new office is so stupid. Aside from the fact that there’s no garage, they also made the main parking lot for visitors only. That’s right, visitors. So employees have to skip the main entrance, and drive to the second parking lot. Once you park, you have to cross a little bridge to get to the building. Why on earth should visitors be closer to the building than the employees? Rude.

It was a slow start yesterday, what with things not functioning properly in the morning, but once they got all the power working, and the phones and printers hooked up, it was all good. I didn’t stop working all day. I actually skipped lunch because there were so many things to do, especially considering it’s a short week. I usually do everything pretty quickly, but lately I have a bunch of things that are up in the air, and it drives me crazy. I hate when things are pending just because people can’t reply to my phone calls or emails. Get your shit together and get back to me. It stresses me out when I have all these piles of things to do. How dare they make me have “to do” piles. Rude.

I’m trying to get as organized as possible because next week…I’ll be in Oklahoma! No, that’s not excitement you hear. Oklahoma? Tornado country? Only one direct flight on a tiny plane, and the only other options are connecting flights? I’m gonna die. But anyway, if I don’t die, I’ll be with my parents visiting my brother for his graduation from basic training. Yay, he graduated! We’re all excited to see him again. I can’t believe it’s been two months already. I’m proud of my little brother. They’ll have family day activities on Thursday, and then the actual graduation is on Friday. On both days, we’ll be able to go out with him for several hours. We can only go to certain areas, and he has to stay in uniform the entire time. Talk about strict. After that, my brother will be heading to his advanced training in Texas, and we’ll be heading back home…on yet another connecting flight. *Cringes* I wouldn’t mind going to see my brother in Texas next time. That’s actually one of the few states I’d be interested in visiting. But Oklahoma? No offense but…it’s Oklahoma.

So, if you don’t hear from me ever again, it was either a plane crash or a tornado, or I just stopped blogging because I have nothing to say and nobody cares anyway. In all seriousness, I really hope we don’t die. If my mom is reading this, she’ll probably be mad that I’m joking about dying. Dying is not cool. Seriously, I don’t recommend it. Avoid dying at all costs. Have a good one, my fellow bloggers. It’s been real.

~Lily~

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