In between healing my ailing heart, trying to find out why the cat is whining, renting out my flat, doing ridiculous hot yoga, trying to find someone to lay timber-ish floors, sorting damn furniture between two places, buying a media ball dress instead of paying my electricity bill (and also two sets of strata fees, water bills and council rates – form a queue, fuckers) not writing my novel, making soup and salad, working, worrying, I find time to write this blog.
I’m tired, I’m dragged down and I’m mostly fucking over it but I’m still going. I’m still getting up every day and Doing the Damn Thing of Living and Dealing With the Stuff of Living. At the moment that’s all anyone can ask, isn’t it? I try not to feel guilty about the people I haven’t called and the things I have not been up to doing and the bills I haven’t paid cos mostly I reckon I’m keeping my head above water and being nice to the stupid bitch who parked like a muppet in my complex because “she had a toddler” and it was easier to inconvenience everyone else rather than park outside like she was supposed to instead of the space she never even goddamn paid for shows I’m not in fact losing my mind. Much.
Have a child, don’t have a child. I don’t care. But don’t fuck up my life because you think you are entitled to special dispensation because you squeezed something out of your womb. You already get special parking spots at the supermarket. I’m sure motherhood is hard. I’m not sure if I want to do it. But the world does not turn around you and your gummy toddler. Just as it doesn’t turn around me and my fears and phobias and mistakes and choices and wins and losses and feelings and shit.
In the words of Dorothy Parker “this living, this living, this living…was never a project of mine”. There is no sliding scale. We all have our demons. We all have our troubles. Just don’t fucking block my car in like a twat and use your child as an excuse. Ends.