I don't care anymore. Or so I say.
Which is why I deleted the small diatribe I had written in the comment section after your post on Facebook. Because I'm cutting back on my swearing and you're a stupid, selfish, self absorbed piece of shit and really, this is Facebook and not a forum for airing out my grievances over your absolute idiocy. And really, I can't possibly let you know how much it hurt me to realize I meant so little and someone else means so much.
Also, my 12 year old daughter might see this on my Timeline.
As might the police. And we can't give them probable cause now, can we?
None of this shit is worth getting worked up over. Or so I say.
Delete Delete that drafted damned Tweet
about the importance of women's rights and how I want my daughter to grow up proud and independent and wise and that this mysogynistic, drivel coming out of your mouth inspires me want to slap the living crap out of you and wonder if you had been hatched? Because no one with a loving mother would ever let such hate out of their mouth. But I don't want to seem too angry, or without a sense of humor, or that I condone violence.
Besides it wouldn't fit in 140 characters or less anyway.
I don't care anymore. Or so I say.
So I find myself blogging about my day and the honesty slowly starts to be edited out as I moderate my thoughts and words for the audience that might read it today or the future employer who might randomly Google my name while doing my background check and discover that I once used a stack of Maxipads to clean up the mess I made when I disconnected the pipes under the bathroom sink to unclog a drain and had forgotten to bring a bucket. What kind of message would that send?
Insert Picture of Cat with Funny Caption here. Thoughts expressed for the day.
None of this shit is worth getting worked up over. Or so I say
Then I find myself with glass of Bourbon in hand, staring at this blank piece of paper, cool crisp white pages, bound by moleskin and with the just the slightest hint of texture beneath my fingers. My extra fine, rolling ball, Pilot Precise V5 pen at the ready. And the day starts to write itself before me, in print or the hurried the cursive that tells me it's been an especially trying day and that I have a lot of words to get out before the tears I'm spilling make everything a smudgy mess. Words I need to express without having anyone judge me, no spell check to tell my I spelled mysogynistic wrong, or that it may, in fact, not even be a real word because SPELL CHECK WAS OBVIOUSLY INVENTED BY A MAN WHO HATES WOMEN AND APPARENTLY, LABELS.
Also, paper burns and no one has to know.
