Bird by Bird

So I'm re-reading bits of Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird right now, and I love it, And her. And writing. And I don't write enough, and in a way that's just sad. Like a grandiose, poignant sort of way, like a bird that can fly but doesn't. Because, in the end, I am rather good at writing when I try, and the only reason I haven't cranked out volumes upon volumes of whatever is because I don't sit down to try very often. Well, that and the fact that as a woman in the 21st century I am in fact allowed to work and have such addictive pleasures available to me as Paris Hilton's New BFF (it's On Demand on Comcast and is truly amazing - unending hilarity) and the entire internet. No wonder Austen and the Brontes churned out novel after novel - they had nothing else to do! Or anyone, for that matter.

Of course, like everyone else, my writing is impeded by the charming delights of the radio station Lamott calls KFKD (say it out loud) telling me on the one hand that I'm the next Messiah and on the other that I am a putrid sore upon the surface of an otherwise pristine planet. It's difficult to write through that. Anyway, I know I have said it before, but I really do want to write, and I think I ought to just sit down and do a bit every day. It's fun. Later. Sort of like lifting weights is nice, later.

For now, I will write about myself. It's traditional. It's a blog. The odds of you reading this if you don't know me are pretty slim, and you may enjoy basking in the world inside my head. Come on in, the water's fine.

At the moment I have multiple friends going through breakups with long-term boyfriends. Don't worry, I am not going to get specific about any of it, friends. It's sad to watch and hear about, but it is making me feel a bit better about not having the slightest chance of going through anything similar anytime soon. First, I would need to locate someone I would call a boyfriend. Then, I would need to call him a boyfriend for long enough that we could wander over into "long-term" territory. Subsequently we would have to break up. To really do it right, I would have to be the dumpee, and actually be upset about it. It's a long road. It's at least two years away. And I like that.

I have this scary theory that this is how women start dating those really unattractive guys who are super nice and about as interesting as a baked potato. To clarify, I don't expect to see my friends do any such thing - they're my friends because they're more likely to enter a threesome with an Italian and a bisexual Israeli or to perhaps experiment with lesbianism or start sleeping with adorable 20 year olds who need beer money. But I think we all do know what I'm talking about. The biological clock starts ticking, and suddenly an intelligent, attractive, interesting woman is dating Homer or Peter. It's a travesty. And I'm sure these women are not able to stay faithful for long. Or if they do, they sell their souls and whatever modicum or creativity or self respect they still had. So, ladies of the world, the ticking of your biological clock is not a reason to marry a loser. It is a good reason to find a nice sperm donor. And you might as well handle the procedure the old-fashioned way, while you're at it.