To me, blogging is a verb not necessarily tied to the act of writing in a web log. In my hazy valentine mind, blogging has come to identify the stream-of-consciousness dialogue, the voices in my head, the thoughts that want putting down somewhere. I’ve created my own connotation for the descriptor as in my mind, I’m blogging all the damn time. I’ve been blogging for years, faithfully, without failure and innovation or intention. I’ve certainly been “blogging” everyday since April 2003.

I started this post in this manner because a second ago, I caught myself typing, “I haven’t been writing it down or anything, but I’ve been blogging like crazy.”
Now, what was that?
Fkking what did I just say? What does that even mean?

Amazing just how lazy and indulgent I have come to be. I think I’ve blogged when I haven’t even keyed anything in. I’m an onion article. I should write that onion article. It’s abstraction now, blogging. Thought-based publishing. I need a programmer and a patent…and don’t any assholes go stealing my idea now.

I don’t write anymore. I am not typing. But I’m still living. How does that work so easily?

I like to believe that encantada has vitality, that she’s animated in mysto beyond my own words and upkeep. That she lives because she is.
But that’s just not true.
What are my words if they continue to never be expressed?
How will I expect to keep myself from crazy if my intimate thoughts never breathe air? If the peanut gallery is of my own creation and populated by my mental SIMS representative versions of my friends? If they’re never bounced and dribbled and tossed into your hands to be caught and then force you to look up at me blinking and steadily catching yourself?

It turned 2005 and I didn’t notice it this year. No biggie, just different. I don’t make resolutions but I’ve got a truckload of intentions. I’ve noticed a sobering sort of growing-up that my mind and body have decided to undertake, and interestingly, things are seeming different to me now. The world is. I’m no longer an Ingénue. I’m still going through it so I won’t be able to articulate it, but I may just give it a shot at a later date.

Two Sundays ago, Oaklawn Superhero and I stumbled into the best party in Houston. AND, it’s a weekly occurance. And, we were the best, most fun duo in the room. AND, we knocked ‘em dead at the subsequent party we got our little selves invited to just for being cute and conversable. I don’t care how dorky I’m gonna sound at this next exclamation, but: we totally rock this town. Damn.

I’ve been seeing a lot of great movies. I’ve been brainstorming children’s books and keeping them in early-proposal format. I need to read more, though…children’s books.

I have in the past year become a luckyass bastress. I’m contributing to NASA’s Bioastronautics Critical Path Roadmap, outlining human-based exploration priorities for the lunar and Mars missions. It’s exciting fkking shit. I’m not appropriately credentialed and am not a technical contributor of course, but I’m in the room and on the project, and I’m editing critical questions and fitting research priorities to their spirals in the small way that I’m allowed. I don’t have a seat at the table, but I’m in the room with the table and that is worth going to work for when you’re experience-less and 25.

But that’s not the only reason I’m a luckyass bastress. It’s been fantastic over on 1122 Milfjord. For a number of reasons.

Speaking of Kelly, hands down,

KO and I kneel at the altar of Dooce whenever possible. Click on her masthead collection. Read all of her archives; launch the Armstrong Kitchen Remodeling Disaster. Dooce, you Dear, are faaaaantastic. I will pen you an ode and send you the aforementioned altar as soon as I finish painting dots on the rest of the walls in the cafe area of my rent house. Don’t be frightened.

Yes, we’ve decided that one of the many foundation-less, cracked-walled rooms in my old ass rent house is a cafe. We still eat in front of the TV like we should, but now we’ve got a conversation piece in the form of an empty kitsch-laden cafe. Completely unrelated, but speaking of my house… Holly got tapeworms and it’s totally gross and I haven’t picked him up or snuggled him for days b/c I’m all weirded out. AND, I’ve been closing the door to my bedroom so he can’t sleep on my bed while I’m at work now too. Because of the ass worms, of course. If only I had never moved into a house and let my pet cat carouse outside with all the other Montrose-area nipped kitties, there’d be no tape worms stuck in his ass fur.

If only.