Is it possible for a person to appear any worse than I appear on this blog? I believe the only way it could possibly be worse is if I started telling the actual truth about myself.
For I have, in the past six months, admitted to:
1. Feeding my children too much sugar
2. Various unattractive physical qualities
3. General cluelessness of the first magnitude
4. Negative behavioral issues
5. Verbal unkindness
6. Contributing to the demise of several woodland creatures
7. Forgetfulness
8. Talking too much
9. Being a boring, unimaginative cook
10. Judgmentalness
11. Defrauding the library of historical material
12. Using the word "butthole" far too often
13. Inappropriate parenting methods
14. Writing bad poetry (took that one down, don't even look)
15. Blah, blah, blah (tiring of this)
The trouble with blogging about the past is that rotten memories, interwoven with the good ones, begin rolling toward me, gaining the speed of a menacing, detritus-laden tumbleweed of depression. (Or a veritable yarn ball of despair speared with life's brain-stabbing knitting needles.) And when I grow tired of pushing against this onslaught, I wonder if I just go to bed and never rise from it again, will life's cruel search light go away and forget me.
And the Christmas season doesn't help, what with all it's reminders that life will never be as perfect as it is in December.
But, despite it all, I get up, get a shower, and go to work.
Sometimes, that's just got to be good enough.
Well, anyway, Merry Christmas.
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