DeMarCaTionVille

When you return to blogging after a long break,  it can be awkward.  You feel obligated to post something intelligent, enlightening,  or worth the wait….

umm yeah.  I got nothin’.

my mind is a blank.

er, well, not entirely.

There’s that mental picture of Toby Keith buck-nekked and the fantasy wherein I taser Michael Steele only to reveal he is a Republican cyborg,  which proves my theory that no self-respecting black man would allow himself to used as a superficial counter-move.

Unfortunately, neither of those thoughts are blog-worthy.

So, my options are:  (1) make-up something as I go or (2) feel that familiar sense of guilt and self-loathing when I see the Professor and he unfailingly asks, “Are you writing yet?” and I reply “Um no, not yet.”

He will then recommend that I force myself to write something, anything, just to get it over with.  He may also try to help by determining the  source of my difficulties: is it self-sabotage?  burn-out?  fear of being labeled uncouth, offensive or unintelligent?  and the best yet – does blogging oppose my solitary nature?

Other friends will weigh in.  If there’s alcohol involved, the collective drunkenness will lead to a discussion of my irrational fear of chickens, my dead garden, my lack of domestic skills, and my aversion to men with pinky rings and/or bad haircuts.

These things are not relevant to the issue at-hand and, other than causing me to be slightly creeped-out by Rev. Al Sharpton,  Lt Gov. Ron Ramsey and the little Rogersville city attorney, who really, really looks as though he should live in Florida where he could swindle old people out of their SSI checks – they have no real measurable effect on my life.

Apparently, however, group efforts  to “repair me” require that all faults, quirks, hang-ups, issues and failings to be brought to light.   Yeah, I know.  Woo-hoo! Hot damn!  Ain’t nothing like spending a Saturday night sitting around with a large group of well-meaning people, who vigorously hypothesize upon all the reasons why I suck.

Good times, good times.

Perhaps after it’s all over, we shall all join together and sing a rousing chorus of the  “Loser” song in my honor.

or…

since  I’m cool with blaming my hang-ups on 70’s parenting techniques, patriarchy and society at-large  – you know, my mother smoked Marlboro’s and drank hard liquor while pregnant.  I teethed on lead-filled toys and am the product of a male-dominated,  Southern Baptist culture – I could make this my “get it over with” post and we could stop analyzing me.

Which means -  it’s now over.

Whew.