Steph commented that I was a woman-hating misogynist for my news post the other day and at first I thought she was serious, which, if you know how I feel about Steph, you'll understand that it gave me a heart attack. Then I reread the post and thought, "that's not even CLOSE to what I first posted. How many times did I go back and edit this and add more stories to it and shit?"
What is it with me that I can't leave my own blog posts alone? You know, if I read a post I did 2 years ago and I see a misspelling, I feel compelled to edit it and fix it. Who is going to read this post from 2 years ago? Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me?
Well, for one thing I am apparently seriously disorganized. I used to not be, so I don't know when or how this happened. But looking at my desk here, I see papers and stacks all over it and I am already frustrated as hell because I'm trying to solve a problem which is due RIGHT NOW and I can't even find all my data and research that I did a week ago. It's right here, somewhere, but where I do not know. So, fat lot of good it does me, eh?
For another thing, I am stuck, so my response to that is to distract myself with other things. For instance, I wandered over to Chris' blog and noticed that he identified the song from the Ipod Nano commericial, 1234 by Fiest. So naturally I had to go find the video and watch it from beginning to end. And then, despite knowing how much of my time this wastes, I checked my blog email and responded to it all. Yeah, this burns up my mornings and doesn't help me figure out the solution to this work problem at all, but it relieves the stress and frustration of being stuck, so the temptation is strong. I already know better than to mess with my email or my blog before lunch. It is a horribly unproductive way to start the work day. Yet, I am compelled.
I used to be smart. I used to be a problem solver. I used to be focused and productive and driven. Now I am a blogger.
I do not hate women, by the way. I just hate feminists. And by feminists, I'm talking about the female supremacist man-haters. And this group includes some very rich and powerful men, whom I absolutely despise for what they're doing. Fucking sociopaths. Fucking Eichmanns. But that is neither here nor there. Suffice it to say that just the other day I emailed a dirty joke to former LA NOW president Tammy Bruce and this proves absolutely nothing. It also doesn't really relate to the point I was making here, which is now gone like a fart in the wind, leaving only a slight burning of the eyes and nostrils as a reminder of its' fleeting existence.
Actually, I hadn't intended the news summary to be half-filled with articles relating to Grrl Power! Those stories just kept popping up as I was writing and so I pasted them in. Next thing you know, I'm off in a direction I hadn't even wanted to go. And this little habit of mine leads me back to ....
I am apparently seriously disorganized. Did I mention this before? I can't remember, but it's true. I start off nicely organized and on track. And then slowly, steadily, I fall into a pile of papers. I put magazines from my Forbes subscription on my desk. It's neat at first, but quickly piles up and I forget about them. I put the printouts from the projects I am working on in neat stacks on my desk. It starts off useful and organized, but quickly becomes 100 different pages of files and queries and code and they're falling into each other, so that one project looks like the next, and which one is which? And where is the printout that I absolutely HAVE TO HAVE and I know I printed it? Shit! I know it's here somewhere.
And when I write, I start off with a point. I start off with an idea and I know how I want to begin and how I plan to lead into it and where I'm going to end. But then, somehow, it takes on a life of its' own and becomes something I don't recognize. Half the time it becomes something I can't use and I drop it into draft, never to see the light of day, or delete it altogether.
I'd like to be a writer. But how can you be a writer if you can't make a simple point without wandering off into the desert and only occasionally hitting the mark you had set in the first place?
And what the hell happened to my spelling? And my grammar? I used to know what I was doing. I breezed all that crap in school. It was super easy for me. Now I can't seem to spell my own name. No, wait, that's the Republican Party that can't spell my name. They're idiots, as they keep demonstrating every time they send another letter asking for money, addressed to Steevn Joans.
Again, off on a tangent here, like a spooked horse tearing across a field, kicking up dust and burning energy for no purpose.
So, that song is now wedged into my brain and playing over and over and over again. But that's OK because 2 of my personal CDs that I burned for my own enjoyment have started to click and distort when I play them now, and this is a major disappointment for me. I need more music and I need to burn more CDs for the long drive to and from work. Maybe 1234 will make the next one? Or maybe it'll play in my head until I'm sick of it and never want to hear it again? That's happened before, you know. It could easily happen again.
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