The saying “still waters run deep”
implies that the act of being still connotes depth. Of thought, of feeling
Sometimes I’m still because there’s nothing to say that will amuse or challenge you.
Or I just don’t have the energy to navigate the dashboard.
Sometimes there’s so much going through my head at once, it bottlenecks at the opening and nothing flows.
Some things, I just won’t share.
The only in-real-life person I allow to be friends with Samara Speaks on Facebook is Owen, my IT guy.
When I tried to post my education rant in all my Facebook groups, social media went absolutist on me and none of the links worked. I wondered if it was a conspiracy against me.
Give me some drugs, a friend to do them with and a good conspiracy theory, and I can keep myself entertained for hours.
My 3 home office computers are all connected. Bitch with Wifi.
Things go wrong. Owen fixes them.
He’s seen everything on my computers, so it’s safe to say, Owen is a trusted confidante.
I turned to him when Facebook was censoring my post, and real world and blog world collided.
I dematerialized for a few days. Sometimes even I need a break from myself.
Is it funny, sad, sweet, ironic – that Owen was the only one on Facebook who noticed I wasn’t around?
The Great Cosmic Joke: While we obsess over what others think of us, the reality is that everyone is so busy wading through the muck and mire of their own lives, no one really gives a fuck about what you do.
It’s supremely liberating, and why I get to drive my kid to school in footy pajamas.
I wonder if I died while my son was away at sleep away camp, how long would I lay there before anyone knew? Probably days. That’s the one thing about being single. When you die, you die and no one knows.
Although it’s still not compelling enough of a reason to get into a relationship.
I wrote a story about getting arrested for disciplining my son and It was picked up by another publication and shared on Facebook over 60,000 times in a day.
Between the blog and its Facebook page, there were over 1100 comments, half of them dripping with the kind of vitriol that burns your face off. You need a White Light Psychic Protection Shield to block the negative energy.
Or a sense of humor.
It was fun being The Worst Mother On the Internet for a few days.
I laughed a lot at the comments, and cried when my friends stood up for me, and maybe was exhausted at the end of it.
I mentioned to someone that writers really need thick skin, and he reminded me that once you publish on the Internet, you leave yourself open to judgement.
True. But I only invited a hundred people to my party.
You know what happens when you invite a hundred people to a party, and 100,000 show up?
And people died there.
But people were born there, too.
My kid has a social niche carved out for himself. He and his friends are “cool nerds.” Kind of that in-between group. Not super popular, but not outcasts.
I get it. He’s a quirky kid.
I told him, “you’re a quirky kid. Know when you’re REALLY gonna hit your stride? College.”
I’m nothing if not honest.
He’s on his skateboard a lot, and he wanted skater clothes. Hurley. Volcrom. That crap.
So, we got him set up. He looks cool as fuck.
One of the popular jock kids at school dresses like this. I’ve known this obnoxious crotchfruit for years. He’s the kind of kid you want to take to a playground with a quart of beer and beat the shit out of.
He accused my kid of copying him, as if the malls weren’t full of stores like Tillys that sell nothing BUT this look.
So what if my kid did copy him, anyway? Who on this planet is original?
Some days I like to think I’m copying a pale Goth hobo at a Marilyn Manson concert. We all get to channel whatever inner vision we have of ourselves, and copying others is another name for survival.
Even as it gets warmer, I’m still missing the extra layer. The one that keeps me from feeling things 10 times more than everyone.
I think about vacations at the beach, or what it might feel like to have electroshock current waking up my body.
I remember that sometimes, the people we love most tell us to we need to find other people who can deal with us, because they cannot.
And that Brutal Truth is better than Sugarcoated Fantasy.
Although the latter would make a much better porn name.
So, it’s the little things.
The right weather at night for a leather jacket.
A new person to make me tingle.
A new rock tee that fits perfectly.
Watching Richard Linklater’s magnum opus Boyhood with Little Dude and feeling pretty smug that I’ve turned my kid into a fan of my favorite director.
Letting the sink’s dishes be the sink’s problem.
The frightening glory of being showcased in a blog post by the Gangsta of Love, my friend Brenda Keesal, along with women whose writing frankly intimidates the shit out of me.
The quiet victory of watching my son view an entire Nirvana concert on YouTube.
Is it ridiculous that it was a Proud Mama moment, one I videoed? Probably.
I did it anyway. Some things are pivotal to me, and me only.
And that’s all right.
This blog post brought to you by the need to feel my fingers tap the keys.
Talk to me. I’m listening.