Lord, what a term. I am teetering back and forth between complete apathy and pure rage driven obsession. I am a passion pie sprinkled with lethargy. I am a senior, and I’m almost done. Repeat, repeat, record skip!
This last week I hit 700,000 views on my blog. Let’s give a big bow to anal sex, pegging, and threesomes, the main contributing factors to my view count. You guys. You guys. I’d like to thank rectal pain and every single one of you who have been green with jealousy. I can’t tell you.
In other big news, I’ve arranged for myself 160 hours of volunteering to complete my senior project. There will be writing! There will be planning! There will be organized schedules that I stick to with vigorous attention! There will be crying! There will most certainly not be any procrastinating whatsoever she tells herself with gleeful dishonesty!
I have dreams where I am writing and I wake up and there, in the corner of my mind, the perfect idea for a post. So I jot myself a little note on my iPhone and I wake up and its gone. The drive, the motivation, the words, the voice. There’s a little box somewhere buckled and bolted with my enthusiasm in it. This is a writers tradition. One that I will drown in a regular dosing of prescription journaling.
Other times, I am at concerts, sitting front row, standing among the sway of drunkards. And a song lyric reaches out and stimulates me and I think, jesus christ, I am in just the perfect mood to write about g-spot orgasms right now. I tell you, standing in the middle of a sweaty concert is the worst absolute time to whip out your reporters notebook. But inspiration comes when it comes and theres not much you can do about it aside from be glad its inspiration and not heart failure, Tourettes, a broken limb.
The next few weeks (and the weeks prior, if we’re being honest) are packed with nothing but holiday goodness. Several years ago a man was bestowed upon me that would become my partner in crime. A Nutcracker attending, ugly sweater wearing, sending out Christmas cards with disgustingly adorable photos in it sort of person. And I whisper to you in (what you must imagine) is the tiniest font ever – I like it. Bathe me in tinsel and glitter and pinecones for I smell of tree and nature and cookie dough and I don’t care who knows it. I am mother fucking Kristina Kringle.
May your pre-holiday planning and celebrating be merry and light, and may your sex lives of whatever nature be furiously wonderful.