Death and Blow Jobs

Starting a blog can be intimidating. The blank canvas awaits your colour, your creativity. The words always come when I don’t have the pressure to BE. However, one thing I know for certain is that I need to start saying yes more and carving out the time for the things that truly bring me joy. Real life, fill me up, I feel-like-I-have-purpose kind of joy. Writing is a huge part of that process and so here I am.

I have always been one to absolutely despise the “about me” section. How am I supposed to describe myself in one little box? I love yoga? Typical.  I drink a lot of coffee and then get anxiety about my water consumption? Not interesting. If I get a zit, I can't rest until I picked the shit out of that little bastard and then I try and hide half my face for a week. [weird]. I love food! Oh wait, everyone does. So you can see my predicament; my life isn't super interesting when I sum it up into a list of facts. 

So how do I tell you about myself? Well, how about I stay true to my real life style and just go all or nothing. No sweet talk here, right to the juicy, weirdo-freak part of my brain. For, if you asked anyone who knows me well, they might all agree that a filter is something I forget to turn on; often.

One strange thing about me is that I constantly think about death. I mean, really, every day. Not even in a morbid way, just like, constant worse case scenario. I remember being a little girl and stealing the car keys from visiting family members so that they wouldn’t be able to leave my house for fear that they might die if they do. One time my aunt left, got all the way home (2 hours away) only to find that I had taken her house key from her key chain. I clearly remember wanting to keep everyone I loved inside a plastic bubble in my home to keep them from any impending danger. I was the doom child.

Over the years it has eased up a little bit, but not much. I can’t count the times I look at my two little boys and think of all the ways they might die. I can ruin any perfectly good moment; a beautiful summer walk with my family on the beach. We are laughing and happy, than boom! Gone. In a moment I have imagined my son being swept up by the ocean, and it doesn’t end there. I go through the whole entire fucking scenario. What I would do; run in the waves after him! Strong, determined. People on the beach are screaming. There’s a shark. I make it just in time! I’m telling you – my brain is insane.

Almost every morning as my husband wakes up at the crack of dawn to head to work, I sleepily turn over and watch his shadow quietly leave the room trying not to wake me. Most times I get out the whisper – “I love you” and then to myself a moment later ‘please don’t die’. I get a few flashes in the morning once I get up: He got in an accident on the way to work. The police will be coming by any moment to tell me he’s dead. This is it. I’m a widow. I’m going to have to be strong; I guess I’ll have to start playing Lego with my son Gabe since Justin won’t be here to do it. Fuck, I like Lego but I get so annoyed following those manuals, seriously. I always end up pressing to hard and setting myself back 5 steps. Then I imagine his funeral, all the friends and people who will come to say how amazing my sweet husband is. How much quality he has, his great talent. I will be crying in the front row; sad, devastated. Then as I look at his casket all I can think to myself is “You know, I really should have given him more blow jobs.

So my friends, welcome to The Momoirs, where truth will always be told and judgment shall not be passed.