Right now, I don't feel good enough. Good enough for what I do not know, just not "good enough."
I feel like I'm not doing enough. How not Zen is that? I think that's why I'm writing right now. I mean, my sister wrote at least three blog entries in the last couple weeks and at least one of them was so fucking brilliant it actually made me feel insecure that she is smarter than I am. Who cares if she is smarter than I am? That's great, she's my sister, I WANT her to be brilliant. Nevertheless, the motivating force that is currently illuminating my future corpse felt threatened by the perceived loss of my imagined throne of brightest childom.
I don't exercise enough. I feel a great deal of guilt over that. Again, a self-imposed judgement that is unnecessary and certainly doesn't help motivate me to exercise more. But whenever I'm curled warmly in bed or making breakfast or sitting in front of the computer for the 10th or 11th hour of the day (I know!), I'm feeling guilty that I don't wake up early and do yoga or take a walk in the mountain paradise outside my front door. Meanwhile, I'm only hurting myself by not doing those things, but then I'm hurting myself worse by indulging in the absurd phenomenon of guilt that arises due to my lack of a disciplined exercise regime.
And now I feel guilty because I know what I'm writing is total shit. Nobody wants to read my fat girl confessional. What makes me think anyone is reading this? What do I care if they are? Furthermore, what do I care if they like what they're reading? I'm not holding a gun to anybody's head and insisting they stay current with my blog. Am I writing it for me or them? I read a lot of other people's blogs and I do get a lot out of it, but most of them, my brilliant sister included, insist they are writing for themselves. Oh yeah, well if you are what happened to your journal, OK? Remember the little books that we all used to keep in which to write our innermost thoughts? Now we air our dirty laundry for all the world to see and smell and rate and upon which to comment. Maybe it is better for us, poorer for everybody else, 'cause now your nose is full of the stink of my bad day, and hey, I feel a little more pure now that I purged my unsavory emotions onto your computer screen.
I'm sure the end of the day drag I'm experiencing is also exacerbated by the money trauma. Again, there's more guilt for me to feel 'cause today I didn't work enough hours, I didn't make enough money, and how could I even dare to consider cutting out of work early with the insane amount of debt I'm carrying? And then I didn't even do anything really productive like exercise or write brilliant blog entries with my unsalaried time. Moments like this I harbor no doubt that the puritans certainly did a number on America when even a godless heathen like myself is forced to self flagellate every time I have a somehow less than pious day not nearly full enough of productive work and righteous activity. And again when I write rambling, run-on sentences like the previous. Or sentence fragments, such as these two.
Give it up, Jus. Pack it in. Call it day. It obviously ain't getting any better from here. I guess it's time to go bathe away the day's sins and the uncomfortable dampness sullying my panties 'cause my PC muscles just aren't what they were before I had kids, all the more confirming my profound personal undeservedness.
Goddamn, I did just say that, publicly, to whomever may be paying attention.