Please don’t take my lack of posting as a lack of things to say. I have a lot to talk about. Loads. MOUNTAINS. My brainmeats, they runneth over (ew) with thoughts and concerns and all manner of minutiae that would bore the pants off of anyone but me. Normally, that’s the bread and butter of a non-professional blogger. Normally, that would be no problem.
Trouble is, I can’t actually say anything about it.
This sort of problem is kryptonite to good blogging. It’s like the knitting bloggers working on a present for someone they know very well reads their blog, and a vast wasteland of Nothingness stretches on before them (unless they’re clever enough to have another project going on at the same time, something I am very bad at doing). I suppose the really clever bloggers just put on their big girl panties and think of England, or something, but we here at the Casa Chez Crankyface already have big girl panties on, and I’ve never been to England, so all I can think of is red phone booths, double-decker buses, Dr. Who and orthodontia. Not very flattering. Not very useful. Not very accurate, either.
I suppose the best way to not talk about something would not include telling the world that I TOTES HAS A SEEKRIT, YO, AND YOU CANNOT HAS. I was never very good about the whole knowing-things-others-do-not-and-keeping-it-that-way part of school, even when “school” was just me, my brother and my mom. I mean, I’d KEEP the secret, but everyone knew that I knew. It might have been the smug expression, or perhaps the taunting (which I have mostly grown out of), or the fact that when I don’t want to say something, I tend to go red from boobs to roots. Extremely red. The kind of red that makes observant folks wonder if I’m about to break into hives and need an epi-pen. Most people learned not to tell me things, but you know how those things go; people forget, or I mistakenly on purpose assure new acquaintances that my lips are sealed.
At any rate, posting things are difficult because everything in my brooding little gray matter is related to stuff I can’t talk about. I brood without the slightest provocation, my friends. If I were an animal, I’d either be a hen or a cow. (Wow. Flattering.) Until a matter is resolved, I can’t let it go. What if? What if. OMG, WHAT IF. It’s very complicated, as you can see.
Here’s what I’m going to propose as a distraction since I’ve rambled on too long for the classic point-behind-you-and-exclaim-some-sort-of-distraction technique.
Aw yeah. Work it, baby.