Rush, Rush!

Yes, I do mean to quote that Paula Abdul song that had Keanu Reeves in the video. Or, I could mean that I messed up my shoulder a bit earlier in the week and pissed it off when I exercise, so I had to lay down to let it chill out and fell into a mini-coma. Now I have 23 minutes to craft awesome! I can do it! (Let us just not analyze the fact that I am the only person who cares that this late blog will be published before 12am cst. It matters to me, dangit.)

First things first: A snap shot of the search terms that lead people to my site:

Three things funny about that:

1) apparently my site is all about the corgis

2) Really? Take it up the butt? I think one of the few things I have never discussed is backdoor lovin’ and now I can’t even say that anymore. I think I have something about me that just screams kinky even though I never really talk about sex. (I do have standards of classy… Or, I am just terminally single and talking about it makes me sad.)

3) My favorite though is the “pictures of the fat bitch guinea pigs, please.” I get this image in my head of a sassy, chubby guinea pig telling it like it is and doing the z snap. I don’t know why this amuses me but it just does.

On another note:

I was watching a documentary of all of these cities like Paris and Berlin in the 1920’s. These cities were sexy, hopping places full of awesome before the stock market crash and that dickbag Hitler. I realized I am totally doing this writer thing all wrong.

I am kind of meek and apologetic about it, when I should really be all like “I’mma writer, and artist, I am one of the sexy, cool kids.”

Next time someone asks me what I do, I should stick out my chest, look down my nose, and drawl something pretentious sounding about my art.

I mean there are some core problems here. I can’t take myself seriously enough to be pretentious, especially not well enough to make others believe me. I don’t do drugs, and even if I didn’t think me on anything more than booze would be a terrifying thing, I wouldn’t even begin to get a hold of opium. Also, I can’t get a boyfriend, much less find enough people to fill a whole orgy. No, well I probably could, but I would have to be whole lot less picky.

So, I am not cut out to be the cool, sexy kind of writer. I am stuck doing it wrong.

I am going to to be less meek about it though. Maybe I should practice cultivating an air of mysterious, writery, pouty sex kitten. I wonder if I can find instructions on the Google.