Where’s My Porsche Already?

Are women allowed to have mid-life crises? And what is the plural from of crisis? Or is there a different word for it altogether for female types? I don’t want a fancy sports car, or plastic surgery, or a new younger wife or anything, but something’s going on in my little pea brain where lately, daily, (I know, too many adverbs, but I’m not submitting this to a lit mag or anything so shut up, and who asked you, anyway?) I contemplate what the hell I’ve been doing with my life, how I’m pissing it away on selfish hedonistic endeavors that result in nothing of consequence (e.g., Netflix, anyone?)

I bitch and moan about how I’m getting nowhere with lightning speed, I’m behind on any writing, be it book reviews, short stories, critique groups, and worst of all, my 60,000+ word tome I’ve grown to despise: my novel. Every day, I have the best of intentions to spend just one lousy hour working on that unpublishable piece of crap, trying to turn it into a publishable piece of crap. But I can’t see the forest through the trees, or I suppose, I can’t see each tree because I’m too overwhelmed at the thought of the forest, and as a result, nothing gets done. And how many people have you already heard complain about (and here’s my unoriginal version of it) how time flies when you get older? And don’t let me get started on all the other things I’ve got going on that my brain cannot keep up with, primarily because it would generate no sympathy. I don’t have kids, so how could I possibly complain about how busy my life is? I mean how hard could it be to live in two cities, right?

Here’s the thing, if time is flying by as fast as I claim, then if I did spend a small amount of time chipping away at pursuing another career, I would have it by now. Grrrrr!!!! Here’s me, trying not to indulge in THAT self-destructive thought.

I know everybody’s got problems, and some people have problems so dire, I wouldn’t trade lives with them, but this isn’t about everyone else. It’s about me, so I don’t want to hear you whine about your pathetic little lives, unless you want to put it in the comments section, which would be nice. And that’s another thing, why do we bloggers NEED people to comment? If we really wanted people to talk to us, we’d call them on the phone, right? But no, I suppose the whole point of the comment is so that all your friends see who is commenting and think that you are popular. But the sad thing is, I’m lucky to get 1 comment every 8 posts, so instead, everybody sees that nobody comments (actually, if I weren’t so self-absorbed, I’d realize that you probably don’t even check the comment count because you don’t really care who else comments) and who is everybody? Why, all three of you that read my blog. My readership is so bad and I’m so desperate that I have to cut and paste it from this site (Nanny Goats In Panties) and paste it on MySpace, so that perhaps two more people will read it.

What I find irritating about the whole “comments” thing, is that you can’t really carry on a conversation. If I ever leave a comment on someone’s blog, I never go back to it to see if someone else has responded, because I can’t remember where I’ve left comments and where I haven’t, so if any of you out there, know of a solution to this outrage, some tool waiting to be plucked from the blogosphere that I’m unaware of that notifies you every time someone adds a comment to a blog post that you’ve already commented on, do tell.

And now, I’ve lost my train of thought, and in spite of this having gone nowhere, I dub this post “published”.