Beware. Not feeling very collected today.

I was just talking to my mom about magazines we're currently reading, and she mentioned she was going to get a subscription to HipMama for my sister-in-law, then she said, "Hey - why don't you submit something to them?" Yes, why don't I? I have no fear of rejection. In fact, I welcome it as incentive to do better. I don't worry about putting my personal life out there. If you read much here, you know by now I vomit my ultra-personal chunks all over the internet. In fact, this magazine is exactly what I'm suited for, at this point in my life. So what's the problem? I'm anal. But closet anal. I'm not proud, like I would be if I were in fact closet prissy. (Which I might be, because I've suddenly become addicted to buying eye shadow, even though I know shit about how to put it on.) The only way you'd discover my true analisciousness is if you saw the organization of my files in my computer. I'm not anal about cleaning, organization of our finances, anything like that. In fact, I occasionally throw extrememly critical things away or neglect to pay important bills. But anything related to work or writing is categorized, labeled, folded, stamped, and otherwise compartmentalized to death. I don't like random files hanging around on my computer screen or on my workspace. I am, in the deepest, darkest part of my soul, a freaking organizational angel of death. And that is why I'm frozen into inactivity with respect to pursuing a writing gig. I can't get my shit together, literally, because all my labels, folders, paperclips and other sundry crutches are packed away in our storage unit. In addition, my office space doubles as the breezeway between the living room and the dining room, and the only storage I have is the hidden 5 square inches behind my laptop. I can not in any way send out letters even remotely related to work if I don't have my lovely folders and paperclips. I'm like a pageant princess without her make-up, or Paris Hilton without the papparazzi. I'm just floating in space, waiting for that which makes me real.

Or is this all just another way for me to blame my inadequacies on our house that won't sell? Because if that's the case, I'm fine with that. Our house that won't sell caused Quinn to hit Madeleine in the side of the head with maglight, our house that won't sell forced Jim to go hunting again today because he hasn't yet Got His Elk, which means I had to reschedule for the 5th time a pedicure that will likely not happen until I have corns, our house that won't sell is dragging out this cold of mine for now the 13th day and forcing me to spit green chunks out my car window and sometimes miss and therefore wipe green chunks off of my car window, and our house that won't sell is most likely responsible for that unusual smell in my car that won't go away even though I finally removed my bag of soccer gear that was turning into a science project in the backseat.

So what's it gonna be boy, Our House that Won't Sell or Analiscious. Who's gonna take the blame for all my issues? Who's gonna take the blame for this bizarre collection of words I just threw all over the screen? I'll blame the house. It's a prick and needs a good beat-down.