When I think about what I am going to write about for my daily commitment, I seem to always think of the title first. Post titles fly through my head throughout the day ranging from self-perceived wit, cynicism or agrandizing glory.
If I had posted early this morning, you may have read about “Creaky Chairs and Sleepless Hot-Flashy Nights.”
Later in the morning, it might have been “Caffeinated Vocal Quivers” or “Gray Hair The Frizz.”
By afternoon, it was leaning towards “M M M My Ginkgo Biloba” with a dash of “You Have Been Rated Superior.”
As evening rolled around, the post title morphed into “Bats, Balls and Not-a-Sippy-Cup Tales” – which would be fun to explain but my guess is a quick decipher would totally embarrass my son.
The reason we are left with burning waffles in my head leads me to expose the truth that there are sometimes experiences, opinions and beliefs that I am hesitant to write about. Here. There. Or Anywhere. The unfortunate confession lies in the fact that the main reason I am hesitant is so that I don’t piss somebody I know – who may or may not be reading this – off.
I want to be a strong, independent woman who doesn’t give a flipping, phantasmal poison dart frog’s ass what someone else thinks of my differing points of view or choices in life. I don’t want to be afraid of repercussions, either real or imagined. I don’t want to be profiled as playing it safe not because of a misconception or lack of synchronicity with my writing style but because I do.
Especially when I am writing.
I would much rather rant from the rafters how I believe God loves everybody unconditionally in the strictest interpretation of the definitions for “every,” “body,” and “without a single condition.” I certainly have enough pent up ammunition to type nearly endlessly about helping the less fortunate than me get a better shake in this life even if it means a few extra tax dollars doesn’t make me a commie. Or love is love is love is love whether it’s between a man and a woman, a man and a man, a woman and a woman, a dog and a cat or three rabbits and a crocodile. It’s not my place to decide who can love who. Or what.
I’m not sure what topics I consider to be too “unsafe” to write about now, or what might cause me to get in some proverbial trouble. My still small voice isn’t quite loud enough to decipher even the caution signs on the road ahead because I’m so far away from any kind of dangerous curve, I might as well be riding the kiddie-cart on a fenced-in sidewalk with a helmet, knee pads and a mouth guard.
There you go.
Off to bed to dream about being naked onstage, starring in a play I wrote about the creation of the universe, sweating under burning spotlights and not knowing my lines again.