I've been trying to break up with this blog but I can't.
Both needy and co-dependent, our relationship has flat lined since the economy rebounded – resulting in more work than I can deal with, and not enough lucid hours in the day. (If you recall, we started courting when I was knee-deep in angst, and the bank was threatening to pull the rip cord on my life support.)
Then I spent the entire summer in a rink parking lot – and since this blog is internet based – I couldn't even bitch and moan between donut bites and swigs of canned Chardonnay.
But last week, something happened.
Last week, someone told me I'd lost my edge. My fucking edge. Who am I without my edge? Just another mommy blogger trying to help small businesses while boring people to death with tips on how to fish a cigarette butt out of pancake batter.
So here ya go.
And I am not sure what I am more upset about: the fact that Colonel Russell Williams gets to rot out the rest of his meaningless life in protective, tax-paid security – or, because that sick fuck looks better in a one-piece bathing suit than I do?
I say, as a mother: put the Colonel in lace panties and throw him in to the King Pen cafeteria on meatloaf night.
Because there aren't enough hours in the day to tell your kids you love them, over and over and over again.
It's not you, it's me. And I'm not going anywhere.