I have, for the last two weeks, been trying to get this page up and running. A deep and sincere ‘Screw You’ to all who told me that WordPress was SO MUCH EASIER than Blogger.

This is in NO WAY easier, ya big fat liars. I cannot wrap my shrivelled, aged brain around all the little things that should be intuitive. All those little things that should be ‘easy’.

I think about it all wa-a-a-a-y too much.

Truth of the matter is, I just want to write. Sure, the aesthete in me would like it to look all profesh and shiny, but the writer in me is done waiting.

I just want to write.

So, here I go.

[Only I’m not really writing, per se. Let’s just say I’m copying.]

[From a piece that I wrote NOT on a site.]

[Like, on paper. ]

[For no one but me.]

[I know. Scandalous, right?]

“Some people might say you are…crass…”, my counsellor says to me, during one of our sessions, as we sidebar our deep-dive in to why the hell I am on this planet, and my purpose for depleting the oxygen supply.

“WHHHHAAAAAATTTT?”, I bellow – aghast – recoiling back as far back as my chair will allow. “Who ARE these motherfuckers? Who would even SAY that? Clearly, people who do not know me very fucking well AT ALL.”

We lock our respective set of blazing blue eyes at each other. After the perfect beat, we both burst out guffawing at my highly telling outburst. (This is pretty much a normal counselling session for us – we should all have this much fun dealing with all the shit in our lives.)

“Really, Shelley – are you trying to tell me that you DON’T consider yourself crass?”, he admonishes.

“Well, of course I do”, I admit.

“It’s just hurtful when other people THINK that I am.”

___________________

So, here’s the truth. I AM crass. I swear like a sailor. Or like a long shoreman. Perhaps like a mer-man (cough, cough). Something vaguely aquatic.

But I can’t seem to help myself.

These words flow out of me, unbidden. If I try to be really super-dee-doper careful about HOW I speak, I get mentally exhausted. It’s just not in me. And then I get cranky. And then I need a nap. Which kind of cuts into my day of gathering stories.

Which I do exclusively for you.

(Even you, you motherfuckers who think I’m crass.)

Foul-mouthed flaneur. Story-teller. Maker. Professional contrarian.

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