Don't even waste your time reading this shit. Thank you.

I'll be thankful when November is over and I won't need to blog every day. Although I might sign on for December, because despite the fact that blogging is starting to feel masturbatory and not in a good way, at least I'm doing something. But if blog-sturbating in public is the measure of my productivity, perhaps it's time for me to reassess.

Hey. Look. I made up a new word.

Blog-sturbation, blog-sturbating.

I'm fucking Shakespeare.

Now I'm laughing at my own jokes. I immediately feel that deep shame that comes with any sinful activity.

Tsk tsk.

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Just don't call me Late to Dinner

A friend recently asked if I was ever called Maggie or if I'd always been a Margaret. That got me thinking about my name. I hate my name. Hate it. I have never liked my name. It seems fine to call other people Margaret. It sounds agreeable enough when I say hello to another Margaret. "Hello, Margaret!" I might say. And the name doesn't offend me. It doesn't make me recoil or wretch. It's just a name. And a fine name at that. But it's not for me. I don't feel like a Margaret. It doesn't fit me well. Hangs off me all funny and weird. Can't ever seem to wear it comfortably. I don't like to be called by name. Frankly, it makes me feel sort of sick. When I was a chubby 3rd grader I decided I wanted to go by a nickname. Peggy. I wrote it in my clumsy curly cursive on the front inside cover of my books. I said it out loud to myself in the mirror. Peggy. Peggy! I liked it. First of all Peg...

possible blog material

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Thinking about my son, jail, near death experiences, and hoping for the future

It's disconcerting when your 9 year old son asks if there are any jails in town that he could tour. My first thought, naturally enough, was that my son was planning a life of crime and wanted to see where he'd be spending 5-8 years of his life. But then I took comfort in the realization that my son is a dear darling boy who absolutely can not think past this moment. THIS moment. THIS MOMENT. He is the boy who tried to pick up fire, the boy who tried to put the knife in the toaster, the boy who ate his entire chocolate Advent calender in one sitting, never contemplating for a second what would happen next. The look of surprise and hurt after the touching fire thing was heart breaking. He was utterly disconsolate on December 2nd when he found he had no more candy and would have to watch his sister eat her stale misshapen chocolate stockings, stars, and bells, one each morning, for 24 days, in front of his very eyes. He was completely dumbfounded not not just a lit...

Stationary Unicycle

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