Happy Halloween Everyone!

Birthday Girl

As of my birthday yesterday, I am officially a quarter of a century old. The big 2-5. And I can’t stop thinking, holy wowza. How did I get here?

It seems like it’s a million years coming that I am finally in a happy place and have everything I’ve ever wanted. The husband. The picket-fence. The shiny jewelry (he gave me a new ring as a birthday gift and it’s bling-tastic).

I have it all, and I still have my sad days, my cry-days, my punch-you-in-the-face days. But for the most part, I am happy. I am content. I am merely Stormy, with a grin upon her face. A dirty evil grin? Perhaps. But a grin all the same.

We close on my new house on Monday!!!! :)

In the birch forest we sliced the paper bark from the trees,

and took them home to line Easter baskets

I have a novel in my head and it’s been there for years and it’s tearing my pretty scalp-flesh apart trying to escape. But I keep shoving it back in and sewing the wound shut and I go another day without writing it. Another year. Another lifetime.

Its been in my head since age everyage and ever since she died it’s been pounding in my brain HARDER and HARDER and HARDER.

But Nana’s Cabin goes unwritten. And she is dead and I do not honor her. And I am terrible. And I am done.

Ignorance in central Ohio

Photograph courtesy of Patricia Pierce 2008

I open a Word document every day and stare at the pulsing cursor. What to write? What will matter? What is worth saying? And I come to the conclusion that I have nothing to say, nothing worth the effort of putting finger to key.

I think I’m empty. Cored out like a Halloween pumpkin. Bereft of motivation, I slam the laptop shut and turn my eyes toward the TV and watch another meaningless show. Mindless girl watching mindless TV. After a few hours, I retreat to bed. My day has been unproductive, and I have expected nothing more of myself.

I think I am perhaps too terribly dull to want to write anything here. A post about my house. Big fucking whoop. A whopping one person will read this post, and even he probably only does it out of kindness to the poor boring girl without an original thought in her head.

I don’t paint. I don’t sing. I don’t know how to fold napkins into swans. I don’t play music. I don’t make art. Well, I try to make art, but I fail in the attempt. I don’t make cool podcasts or video diaries, I don’t have any HTML knowledge or any computer knowledge for that matter to make this pathetic blog look cool. I don’t do anything with my mind or hands worth talking about.

I am the talentless. The empty human who must needs walk the earth all her days so the people with talent will feel all the more talent-filled in comparison. I’m the jar that isn’t even half empty because no one bothered to put “half” of anything in to begin with. I am the empty, the ugly, the useless, the lame. I am a void in the world that has taken shape and dressed in ratty clothing.

I have accepted that I am empty but all the same I wish I were one of you. So talented, so beautiful, shiny and new like a nickel that a real person would jingle in their pocket. So I watch you and I wonder what it must feel like to be someone.