Well that lasted a whole week

I left Twenty something bloggers.

I didn't fit it. I can't put my finger quite on the exact reason what it is, but I felt like a fraud. I'm thinking it's due to the fact that I've never been one to fit in with those my age. I've always fit in better with older people. Hell, I'd rather hang out with my 90-year old grandparents than some people my age.

Nothing against the members of the network - I'm sure that they are all perfectly wonderful people. But I found that most of them were in their early twenties and priorities included partying and drinking and their posts were riddled of drunken drinking stories. As I mentioned in a prior post...I grew out of that long before I was even able to legally drink.

Maybe I just wasn't finding the right members or blogs.

Either way, it wasn't the right place for me.

A Confession, Of Sorts...

I joined Twenty-Something bloggers today.

That's not my confession. But it's kind of related to my confession. Be patient, I'll get to it.

Ok, so here goes...deep breath...

I don't drink.

I know...crazy, right?

Don't get me wrong - I'm not weird religious or anything that is anti-alcohol. Nor am I a recovering alcoholic. I just don't drink. I always want to drink...but when I'm in the setting where alcohol is flowing, I will always order a diet-coke with grenadine. Yes, you read that correctly...I order a Roy Rogers. What can I say? I think I like the idea of drinking better than the drinking itself.

Normally, I don't really care. I had two good years of drinking fun (and both of those years were before I could even legally do so). I'm usually having fun and I don't need to imbibe in great quantities of the liquid devil to enjoy myself. I also am very much so against drinking and driving of any kind, so this usually works out for me (hmmm...perhaps this can be one of my experimental hot-button topics I've been wanting to write about).

But sometimes? Sometimes I just want to drink fucking margaritas all night! I'm in my twenties, for Christ's sake! I'm not some old lady (that's what I keep telling myself, anyway). So I'll have one and then I'll feel like shit the rest of the night and my idea of having a fun, crazy-drunk night are shot to hell. So I just skip the tequila and stick with the cherry syrup (because let's be honest here, I'm crazy enough as it is without the liquor).

For the most part, I've come to accept and embrace this fact about me. The people I go out with regularly don't mind this about me and actually appreciate it. And they get a kick out of the grown-up ordering a kiddie drink. Whatev...they can laugh all they want. That shit is delicious.

So there it is...my confession. I feel better now.

On a completely unrelated note, I have a query about 20-something bloggers. What happens when I'm not longer in my twenties? I only have a year and a half left! Do I get kicked out of the community?

I probably should have thought about that before I joined...

Hmmm...

So the posts I've been dying to write? Where are they? It seems that I create this place for me to finally write those posts that push buttons and end up with a post about being an asshole and a post bitching about people bitching about gas prices.

Lame.

I'll get one written eventually. What's the rush, right?

In the meantime, I'm reading again. I've been away from leisure reading far too long. Now I'm forcing myself to read every single day. I'll even read on the toilet, much to the horror of my significant other. He'll get over it...at least I'm out of his hair for fifteen or so minutes.

I'm kind of an asshole

Not a bitch. An asshole. Possibly certifiable.

That term is usually reserved for dudes, but I believe that women can be assholes, too. I know I am. I thought that I would start collecting proof of me being an asshole

So without further ado, the first installment of

Reasons Why I am an Asshole:

• I rarely hold doors for people behind me. I make exceptions for pregnant women or old people. And sometimes people with their arms full of stuff (only if I accidently make eye contact). But slutty girls texting on their cell phone? They can get the door in the face for all I care.
• When people I don't know or don't like talk to me, I respond with monosyllabic answers. I don't try to continue the conversation. And when I can finally escape the situation, I usually do so with a sigh of relief and a very obvious roll of my eyes.
• I told my sister-in-law that she had a punchable face because she wore those huge sunglasses that make people look like bugs.

And that's all I can think of for now. There are more...oh boy are there more. But I'm too bored to finish this right now.

Enough, already!

Gas is expensive.

I get it. I do. But right now, there's not much we can do about it.

Can we stop talking about it now?

Thanks.

Your Face Is, Indeed!

Ok, this is a completely new experiment for me. I have no idea if I'm going to be able to pull it of or if I will even continue.

I've been blogging for a few years now. I've been pretty open with my identity but rather limited with my topics.

Time for a change, me thinks.

This blog will probably be more of me than any of my other blogs have ever been. I will write what I want. What I feel. Not what I think others want to read or what will entertain the masses and generate tons of comments. In fact, I may eventually turn the comments off on this blog, depending on how I feel after a few posts.

Not because I won't want the feedback if I write a controversial post or anything, but because comments on a blog - reading, responding, commenting back, etc. - is time consuming and has turned the art of blogging into a popularity contest rather than having a space to write what we think and feel.

But we'll see. For now comments are on (although, moderated). And the posts I've been dying to write for the past four years will be forthcoming.

I'm excited.