Tonight, I tried to write my dead grandmother … again. To no avail really. (I should say here that I don’t mean write a letter to my dead grandmother, but instead literally…write her down. I want her presence on the page). I didn’t get much farther than I did last time, except this time I actually cried while writing which has never happened to me before, I don’t think. Maybe in middle school over my romantic interests, or something. I’m pretty sure during that period I just got distracted by doodling. As you can see from the picture to your right, I still get distracted with doodles – but doesn’t everyone? Sometimes it’s hard enough to write someone that you need to stick-figure-them-out in the margins. That way you can put whatever clothes you want on them – fierce samurai outfit even though they’re a southern girl covered usually with dainty, sensual sundresses. I like to decorate my hang man as well which gives the other person ample time to win. Come to think of it, I very rarely cry over my own writing, or other peoples, unless it’s written by Tiffanie DeBartolo. In that case, I’m a mushy, throw-things-across-the-room type of gal.
I think it’s safe to say that only crazy people try to write their dead grandmother close to midnight on a Friday. While most twenty-four year olds are at the bar, a concert, watching a movie, or shagging some hot piece of man meat on a Friday night (maybe some are at Bible study, let me not leave any category out), this girl is writing fourteen pages of dead grandmother. In fact, you may not actually see this post until morning if I have any more trouble keeping my droopy eyelids up and alert. I should sing the “Alive, Awake, Alert, Enthusiastic,” song and stomp open my whole house of people, plus the cat. He’s probably the worst.
This is a rant blog, as you can tell. Not an angry rant, just a collaboration of words against me, sort of thing.
It’s too late to blog with any sort of normalcy.
I’ve struggled all today with finding a blog topic worth writing. I’ve been so in love with my little Obama schpeel that I haven’t had any motivation to write anything beyond a book review, of which I have none. Although my reading list for January seems intense, and far superior than what I thought it was going to be, none of those books were really blog-worthy. Not saying that a lot of them weren’t really wonderful, I have one or two, five star books, but they aren’t intriguing enough to force other people to read them. I guess, for me to blog about a book it has to be both beautiful, and intriguing. It has to be a mysterious woman in an overcoat. Too many buttons. A wildflower. So many metaphors.
Thus, why you haven’t been seeing the book side of this blog lately, or the bowel side. Although today on Shark Tank, I did see a guy who did most of his thinking on the toilet and he was selling his cat drawings. Literally, he was selling line drawings of cats doing strange things. Actually, let me find his website for you, I’m sure I can. All of us cat lovers can get a real thrill out of this.
Visit I want to draw your cat for you. I want to be honest and let you know that his face was far more chunky than his little image implies. Oh wait, he’s on the website doing his little dance.
This one…isn’t really from me, but the chick is named Cassie and that cat looks like it has an ego just about the size of Jasper’s. And now I’m blogging about cats. Really, what hole could be bigger than this one to get myself out of? What hole is greater though, really, than the whole of the blogger who loves cats? There is no greater hole, nor person, than a person who blogs about books and cats. Today, I went to a blog titled Chocolate & Cats, which is perfection. Throw me a Reeses and take my cats teeth away, then lay him on me and it’s a perfect day. Maybe set up a picnic and I can snuggle him until he squirms away as per usual.
Two days ago, my dad cut me out a comic, where the owner is asking the cat to come cuddle her, but the cat refuses (as most cats do) and the old woman, hair in curlers I believe, says, “Of course, I forgot, you only want me when it’s on your perogative…” or something along those hilarious lines.
Oh, you don’t like cats? Sorry, this blog may not be for you.