I know. I should be writing.
It seems like the only things I want to write about are personal. And I don’t get personal.
Not because I’m too stuck up to get real. Well, I might be a little stuck up. But the people I want to write about will read what I write. And I wouldn’t be writing the most flattering things. And then I’d have to deal with that. So there’s that.
I’m not out to get anyone. It’s not a question of who is right and who is wrong. It’s just feelings. Stupid feelings.
See? I’m already discounting my opinions. And being cryptic, and cryptic shit is annoying unless it’s super poetic but I’m not poetic these days, I’m a big pregnant lady planet.
It’s easy to put off thinking about real life while waiting for the impending whatever to happen. This baby, in my case, is the whatever. I make lists of things I still need to buy, wash all of Elliot’s old clothes, organize them by age and season. I buy only our immediate needs at the grocery store so I’ll have an excuse to go back in a few days just to have something to do. I talk to the people I like and only the people I like because I could get into an uncomfortable conversation or have to face unpleasant people and consequently disrupt my pleasant little life.
Maybe I’d like to get a little uncomfortable. Maybe I’d welcome those rough conversations.
Maybe after I’m done being a planet. And then I’ll write about it.