I do know what Laissez Faire means, Say NO to the Douche, and other Nasty Business

Okay people: Little intro here. I haven't felt the need to unburden my soul with foul language in a little while. I make up for it here. Do not continue if you're easily offended. And another thing. This is a rough draft but it's as done as it's going to get and I've got other shit to do. Thanks for reading.

I received a thoughtful gift recently, A book entitled, How to Make $250,000 a Year Writing, or something like that.

I assume it's full of smart ways to find freelance work, maybe copy editing, technical writing. Not stuff I excel at.

I was employed as a copy editor for a while. It didn't really work out. I can't spell. I understand the mechanics of language emotionally not intellectually. My approach to grammar is similar to my approach to money; a frothy mix of magical thinking, intuition, and a little "Laissez Faire" which I think means "What the Fuck" in French.

Sadly this approach is not Chicago Manual of Style compatible.
Let's not even talk about my bank account, okay?

But perhaps I could actively seek out a freelance technical writing gig. With luck and pluck and a few well told lies I might get a job somewhere.

Only problem, the idea of writing a technical piece about technical stuff sets me up for an ADHD relapse. There is not enough Ritalin in the world.

Linear thinking is not my cup of Postum. Well reasoned logical stuff is not easy for me to write. Tell me you hadn't noticed.

I'm a 'gets bogged down and twisted on the leash of my own illogical thinking' kind of thinker.

I'm like my dog who winds himself around a tree and can not figure out how to get untangled.

I'm like that. Only I'm human. Just to be clear.

I'm sure there is a real world application for my brand of cognitive dysfunction.

I'll figure it out as soon as I get some nice lady to free me from the clutches of this shrub that seems to have gotten very close to me suddenly. I was just wandering around in circles when WHAM! I find myself caught up short, standing here with a shrub up my ass...man, this collar is too tight. Bitch is choking. Help.

Help.

So, yes, the book,  How To Make Real Actual Money Writing Shit That Will Make You Hate Writing Shit. My 9 year old son handed it to me today and said, “Mom, have you even THOUGHT about reading this?”

Yes son. I have thought about reading it but I can't quite bring myself to do it. Avoidant Personality Disorder. Look it up. Definition and example: no words, just my picture. I swear to you this is true. Really. Google it. Or don't if it makes you uncomfortable.

Later I think about my son's question.

I imagine what it would be like. I imagine myself composing instructional pamphlets, the how to use a douche instructions that come in the box. You know, someone has to write that stuff. Why not me?

Happy Vagz Douche Bagz tm: Attach Happy Vag Douche Bagz tm nozzle to douche bottle, the bag thing, we don't often use those anymore it's really a douche bottle but that doesn't sound as good as bag...You know who's a real douche bag? Sorry, back to reality and your douching. First thing before you do anything is fill that sucker with Happy Vagz Douche Juice tm, wait...this stuff will eat the paint off your refrigerator imagine what it'll do to your, forgive the technical jargon, "girlie parts” ! Honey, Did you READ what's in this stuff? This stuff is poison. Drop the Douche, Suzie Q! Seriously!

I'm getting nowhere fast. My dream job as a technical writer is over before it even had a chance to fail.

Maybe I could score freelance work writing vague essays about whatever parenting trend is hot this week. Helicopter Teen Age Tiger Soccer Moms. Or maybe something about childhood nutrition and the war on childhood obesity. The pros and cons of the organic wheat grass breast milk diet for children. Surely you've heard of this. It's so natural and beautiful. Baby consumes nothing but wheat grass juice, breast milk, and soul of his mother until he's old enough to head off to college or the mother dies. Breast is best. Tough titty Momma.

Perhaps I could write 10 easy mistakes parents make while trying to potty train their children which will cause permanent emotional damage and damn you to hell.

Ten easy to spot signs that your newborn is a musical prodigy.

Ten  easy ways to make every single fucking thing an enrichment activity for your child.

101 ways to make sure your damn kid is better in every way than any child who has ever lived  since Jesus or maybe even better than Him.

10000000000 ways to insure you'll be forever remembered in song and dance as the best mother who ever expelled a tiny human from her vagina or who ever raised such a one.

Just thinking about all this my head starts to pound and my heart starts to pound too and I think, I would SO FUCK it up. I would fuck it up. I would have a bad attitude. I would say SHIT. I would panic, I wouldn't finish anything on time, I would quit.

I am such a fucking whiny shit. I don't LIKE to write about stuff that's not interesting to me. And I will find a way to fuck it up.

My super ego/ internalized mother says, “Tough shit dear darling. Your job is to make it interesting and not fuck it up.”

My perpetually petulant ungrateful internal adolescent says, “You never let me do what I want to do!”

My impatient resentful maternal self says, “Suck it up Daisy. You do plenty of nothing every day sitting on your ass thinking about what you don't want to be doing. Quit wasting time already and do something.”

“Nobody understands me.” I whimper. I know I'm pathetic.

The All Mother in me sighs, leans heavily on the kitchen counter next to the sink, support knee highs bagging around her cankles, the tops of her swollen feet over-filling the tops of her dingy white Keds.

She takes a drag on her cigarette, pats down the curlers in her hair, she squints through cats eye glasses and through the smoke as she exhales, “So you think nobody understands you, huh? Quit your bellyaching and join the human race, Princess.”

I'm a weepy scared little shit and a pissed off crazy mother trapped in the same body.

I am so fucked.

Maybe there's a story there.