It fucking figures that the second I register for a conference for bloggers that costs hundreds of dollars (the conference, not the bloggers, we're all cheap) and puts me Out There on that limb named "Calling Yourself a 'Writer' In Public" ...as soon as I take that giant step forward, I stop writing. I stop blogging. It motherfucking figures.
I haven't stopped blogging so much as my brain is constipated, which means that not only is Zipbag of Bones nothing put a zip bag of SHIT at the moment, but also that my creative non-fiction writing class isn't going too hawt, if you know what I'm saying. I'm SO constipated that I'm frantically trying to decide if I can somehow pass off my "Summer Vacation" essay from the 5th grade as my 10 page memoir essay that's due on April 8th.
QUICK! How do I say "threw up on the carpet while watching Honey, I Shrunk the Kids" in a way that makes it sound now-ish?
It's not like I don't have anything going on, what with the wedding in 109 days and the other big things I'm working on, plus my voluntary torture (school), personal dramas, and never ending love affair with the bottle...Let's just say I am NOT lacking brain shit. It's just that all my brain shit is backed up in there, somewhere around my duodenum...wait, or is it pons...and it WON'T COME OUT. Meanwhile, my brain intestines keep leaching fluid out of the brain shit so now it's hard as a rock and won't be passed through the brainus and into my fingers without hella pain killers and probably some stitches.
Every once in a while, I squeeze a little brain pebble into these fingers and it splashes softly on this blog...things like the fact that I saw a mattress and a box spring go magnificently flying out of the bed of a truck on the freeway yesterday and a bunch of cars had to swerve to avoid getting smacked by what amounts to a giant, flying pancake and the driver of the truck didn't even notice at first, but when he finally pulled over and I passed him, his head was buried in his hands and you know he was thinking that now he'd have to live on the freeway.
If that were me, I would have kept right on driving. Nobody wants to sleep on a freeway.
Although, it might have been better than the motel in which I stayed Thursday and Friday nights when I met my little sister and Angel Butt and my mom in Des Moines for a weekend of shopping and, apparently, ulcer irritation-ing. The hotel itself wasn't bad, but they didn't exactly have what you might call, oh, LOCKS ON THE FUCKING DOORS. And the overnight desk clerk reminded me of Charles Manson.
Speaking of look-a-likes, we went to dinner at a hibachi place on Friday night and the family we sat with was the great-grandparents, the ten-year-old grandson, grandma, and finally the lesbian aunt who looked EXACTLY like Marshall Mathers. I am not even shitting you. If you took a picture of Eminem and you put a fedora on his head and an extra 50lbs on his ass, THAT'S what the lesbian aunt looked like (and this is a perfect example of why I fucking need photoshop). She was amazing. I almost asked for her autograph, but I was afraid she'd think I wanted it because she's a lesbian, not because she looks like a rapper, and I don't want to be mistaken for somebody who stereotypes lesbians. They would all kick my ass and hang me in a tree by their flannel shirts.
So the Japanese waiters sang a Chinese birthday song (I know, I was confused, too) to a little girl at another table, which was apparently inspirational because Angel Butt decided that we needed to sing Happy Birthday at our table, too, except it wasn't anyone's birthday. The grandma said that it was their friend Niko's birthday, except he wasn't at the restaurant, but that didn't matter at all, and Angel Butt lead us all - the ENTIRE table, even Eminem - in a lovely rendition of Happy Birthday to Niko (to which my mom harmonized) and even though Niko is a complete stranger and a 2-year-old and he lives in North Dakota, I think he knew.
And then my sister and I went back to the motel lounge and got drunk with the bartender and a girl whom he likes and whom likes him, and both of whom are too Iowan to admit that they like each other, even though she goes to the bar to hang out with him EVERY WEEK (I'm pretty sure my sister and I broke the ice on THAT one...god, we're like saints...) and eventually they had to kick us out because they were closed but that didn't seem to bother us, and my sister ended up vomiting from Iowa to Arkansas. Because she has ulcers and can't drink anymore. Because of the holes in her stomach. I'm pretty sure that's not going to happen again.
I'm also pretty sure I never paid our bar tab.
Iowa is weird.
*Ya'll, I just checked my credit card and it turns out that I totally paid my bar tab! But did I tip? I don't know if I tipped, which is so incredibly unlike me. Normally I tip way too much and then I have to explain to the police that I wasn't trying to solicit sex from a minor, I was just letting the waitress know that I appreciated her preemptive beverage refills.
Hey, bartender! Did I tip you? If I didn't tip you, leave me a comment or shoot me an email. I would be happy to send your tip in the form of a voucher, redeemable for (1) blow job or (1) corn dog.