Why I find myself unable to post anything.
1. My uncle is dying. I couldn't say we're close, but he's the only one in the family with a clue about who I really am. He calls me Gypsy. We're doing a lot of traveling these days to visit him, take my dad to the doctor, etc. Any day now, my uncle will slip into a coma from cancer that has moved from his lungs to his brain. That sucks.
2. The weather is too good. It's still in the 80s here. We have a serious drought on our hands.
3. The news is too bad. The Democrats are either too lame or making too much money to oppose the Bush junta. Bush continues to dismantle the Constitution. Blackwater is committing murder. Our troops are dying for no reason. Darfur is in the grips of its 4th year of genocide. pResident Bombs A Lot is going to attack Iran, and I don't even want to think about what could happen there. If you've got friends in Israel, tell them you love them.
4. Halliburton is coming to Kentucky. People here think liquifying coal is a good idea - it isn't. Why does progress here always involve a deal with the devil?
4. I'm taking art classes and I can't decide whether to talk about that here or start yet another blog on this site. Then that begs the question should I redesign this site. Or change servers. Change domains? and on.. and on.... it never ends.
5. I'm having an identity crisis. I am completely unprepared to have lived this long. I figured I'd never make 30, yet here I am at 46. What do you do when you can't be who you want to be? Who am I? What am I? What's the point? Why are people so much dumber than I am so much more successful at almost everything? Why do my days feel like they're an hour long? Do I leave my hair long and dark or cut it off and bleach it blonde, which will piss everyone around me off? Why do I alternate between feeling numb and feeling ovewhelmed? Why do my dreams feel more real than my waking hours? Why can't I paint? I could go on like this for hours, and do...
6. I'm worried I may lose my health care. I'm stressed about money. I'm getting nothing done on my book. I hate my clothes. My room is a disaster of epic proportions. My sick mother needs more from me than I have to give.
I could go on, but you get the point, if there is such a thing. I'll write more when I can do something besides whine.