P is for Pissed or Provocateur

There has been a nagging at my skirt and a tugging in my stomach. It's that strange achy feeling like the coffee pot has been left on or like a bill might not have been paid.

It's the feeling that sometimes accompanies shame. Like if someone looks at me long enough they'll see my bra through my shirt or know that my legs or horribly unshaven under these jeans.

I've been searching for what's pulling...

I am in Kansas City, waiting for kids to continue debating their asses off and I decide to, for, of course, posterity's sake, take a gander at the 'ol (or is it ol') blog-eroo. I can't help but be saddened and impressed at how well I used to write.

I have a keen sense of awareness that when I was doing this before that my metaphorical technique was close to flawless (how I love giving my narca-self praise!) But, the scared hairy-appendage-push-up-bra-frighted-without-legs-doe in me makes me terrified to again open myself to this vulnerability.

But I'm nautious. Without here neurotic is a good day. Overwhelmed is everyday, and the burning in my belly and Pavlov's bell rings in my head constantly reminding me that I am missing something.

I always do this.

I write. Then I get angry at the time I spend writing because it is a waste of time. I feel guilt about being on the internet because its less time to grade, be with my daughter, be with my husband, catch up with a friend. Does this mean I have chosen an internet diary over relationships?Especially the familial ones?

Or does it mean that I am tired of playing perfect to everyone except for myself? Oh, the melodrama!

Something has gone wrong.

I find myself wanting to make bad decisions. Not the little pick-your-nose-say-a-bad-word-sleep-in-late-don't-clean-the-house ones, but the cross-the-line-screw-responsibility-am-I-really-an-adult-why-can't-I-go-back-to-college ones. And I think it's because my artsy fartsy side isn't being fed. The rebel in me says that I haven't said enough bad words to keep the creative juices flowing. That for every fuck I utter that I free words like "narcissism" and "exemplify" and "germane" that refuse to come out of the corner they were pout in until I utter the secret dirty words.

Now the Schizophrenic dilemna:

Am I supposed to ignore the rebel in favor of the mother? Is this the last of my childhood dying? Am I supposed to place all of this in an emotional heart shaped box (to borrow a phrase) until I hit mid-life crisis and either run away with a blonde twenty something young girl, get a tatoo, or buy a sports car? Or do I continue this blog thing and tell little Baby Girl that "mommie has a blogging and bad word problem"?

I guess there are worse addictions, but if she were to see her mother ranting like a lunatic or worse see her mom's childish need to complain, maybe it would decrease her ability to trust me or worse, her ability to respect me.

All I know is that everytime I stop writing, I get a burning in my belly. The demons I run from start catching up. The bad decisions overshadow the good. Mike where are you? Malfoy where are you? Genderist, Bad Shoe, Counts, and Haters, huh-huh, hello? Is this thing on?

Like crawling into sweatpants. Doesn't matter how shitty or underdressed they make you look, they are always the perfect fit...So, here I am baby...signed, sealed, deliver'd. I'm yours.