![](http://"http://static.flickr.com/84/261697034_7aee0845b7_o.jpg")
Resolving to suck, somehow.
The Office was a rerun last night. It was Toby's send-off party and Michael was preparing to conduct Toby's exit interview. When the new HR woman and the receptionist (I clearly don't watch often) joined him, his plan to smear and degrade Toby was foiled. Hilarity ensued.
Michael had prepared a few questions on notecards, which he reluctantly read aloud, in front of the group. First, "Who do you think you are?" read with as little enthusiasm as possible. Toby's response: "Toby." Second, "What gives you the right?" Toby's response: ... Then Toby opened his parting gift, which was a rock that said "Suck on this."
And so today, after 112 hours confined to the house with semi-sick kids and a pre-occupied husband, I was convinced life threw the "Suck on this" rock at my forehead. I'm mad at all of them for the things they do, and as I constructed the elaborate arguments and accusations in my head, I realized it all sounded like Michael, railing against a harmless HR guy. If I were to utter them out loud, they would be as effective and accusatory as Michael's "What gives you the right?" - read in a calm voice, drawing out the 'you,' accent on 'right.' It sounds like nothing, ridiculous tiny fists, flung at a stuffed Curious George.
I've been asked three times in the last week if I'm still writing. If it was you that asked, I lied. I'm not. I've half-finished a couple stories that are not good. I've got four stories I've put in one basket, and they've squashed each other and are beginning to stink like rotten eggs. I'm going through magazines like cheap toilet paper, submitting the same four stories and getting the same four rejections. I shovel the walk twice a day, complaining in my head about the time I had to shovel the walk when I was 6 months pregnant, complaining in my head that I had to put up the Christmas lights, complaining in my head that Kerry didn't cut my bangs quite short enough.
What the fuck, you idiot? What the fuck's wrong with you? Get over it, dumbass, and do something. Tell somebody else to shovel the walk for once and don't care if somebody else gets mad. Get over the Christmas light thing. It's been 12 years and by now what's the big surprise? Bangs? You're shitting me. You're fussing about fucking bangs? You're not writing because of what? That's what I thought - no reason. Life didn't throw you a rock - it threw you a gigantic gift basket from Harry and David, delivered by five hot guys who like to talk about their feelings and pop culture. And it's always your 22nd birthday (the one that's still fun, and you aren't made to drink Cement Mixers or Sex on the Beach until puke comes out your nose), and you won a Major Award that may or may not be a lamp fashioned from a fish-net-stockinged plastic leg. Dude (me), life is starting to get pissed and look around for a rock.
Here's my resolution for '09: What are you waiting for? Suck it up.
Michael had prepared a few questions on notecards, which he reluctantly read aloud, in front of the group. First, "Who do you think you are?" read with as little enthusiasm as possible. Toby's response: "Toby." Second, "What gives you the right?" Toby's response: ... Then Toby opened his parting gift, which was a rock that said "Suck on this."
And so today, after 112 hours confined to the house with semi-sick kids and a pre-occupied husband, I was convinced life threw the "Suck on this" rock at my forehead. I'm mad at all of them for the things they do, and as I constructed the elaborate arguments and accusations in my head, I realized it all sounded like Michael, railing against a harmless HR guy. If I were to utter them out loud, they would be as effective and accusatory as Michael's "What gives you the right?" - read in a calm voice, drawing out the 'you,' accent on 'right.' It sounds like nothing, ridiculous tiny fists, flung at a stuffed Curious George.
I've been asked three times in the last week if I'm still writing. If it was you that asked, I lied. I'm not. I've half-finished a couple stories that are not good. I've got four stories I've put in one basket, and they've squashed each other and are beginning to stink like rotten eggs. I'm going through magazines like cheap toilet paper, submitting the same four stories and getting the same four rejections. I shovel the walk twice a day, complaining in my head about the time I had to shovel the walk when I was 6 months pregnant, complaining in my head that I had to put up the Christmas lights, complaining in my head that Kerry didn't cut my bangs quite short enough.
What the fuck, you idiot? What the fuck's wrong with you? Get over it, dumbass, and do something. Tell somebody else to shovel the walk for once and don't care if somebody else gets mad. Get over the Christmas light thing. It's been 12 years and by now what's the big surprise? Bangs? You're shitting me. You're fussing about fucking bangs? You're not writing because of what? That's what I thought - no reason. Life didn't throw you a rock - it threw you a gigantic gift basket from Harry and David, delivered by five hot guys who like to talk about their feelings and pop culture. And it's always your 22nd birthday (the one that's still fun, and you aren't made to drink Cement Mixers or Sex on the Beach until puke comes out your nose), and you won a Major Award that may or may not be a lamp fashioned from a fish-net-stockinged plastic leg. Dude (me), life is starting to get pissed and look around for a rock.
Here's my resolution for '09: What are you waiting for? Suck it up.
posted by Mignon at 11:19 AM
A little self-awareness is a terrible thing, isn't it?
I'm resolving to stop swearing and stop flipping people off. I fell off the swearing wagon 233 times yesterday and the flip off wagon half a time. Progress.
I HATE to quote the Eagles, but i'm going to anyway;
"I can't complain but sometimes i still do."
I often say this line in my head, just to try and get myself to Suck It Up.
I fear that it's just because it's "that time of year," (New Year's and all) but if so, whatever. I'm not writing either. I thought I would resolve to write a poem every day this year, but around 10 p.m. Thursday night and four beers I decided not to. Good thing, eh. Here's our problem (and I'm a guy so I get to diagnose and try to fix these things): as soon as we think about the writing thing we fuck it up, but obviously we can't DO the writing thing UNLESS we think about it. Is this an impossible dilemma? I don't know. I hope not. I hope I don't have to put myself into a stupor in order to write (mainly because I've found that I CAN'T when I go that route). I have this notion that just maybe there are some people out there who can help me, and that maybe I can help them.
I think you're writing is best when you aren't trying. I love your blog because your posts are honest. You're writing here lets me see your soul. That's what I strive for. It's a hard thing though. Not something you can sit down and do like cooking dinner or shoveling the sidewalk. You have to be able to speak truth but do it well. I hope you will keep writing.
I'm right there with you, Mignon. Sucking it up as we speak.
Wow. Wow Wow Wow.
I have nothing to add to this. You are just so damned awesome Mignon. Even your screw ups and anger is so damned awesome.
I'd buy a story written in this voice.
You fucking rock.
Pun intended.
My new year's resolution is that I'm NOT going to lose the rest of the baby weight, seeing as to how it's been 22 months. Sucking it up works in so many ways...