My name is Patience and I am not not not a writer. I used to write funny little stories, mostly about my sweet dogs. And then life whapped me upside the head. And then it whapped me in the gut. And then it whapped me with a sucker punch to the kidneys. It kept whapping and whapping, and if you read my blog for the last year I was writing it, well, I don't know how you did. Because it was nothing but "WHAP", wail, "WHAP", wail, "WHAP", wail, "WHAP", wail, and so on ad nauseum.
Finally even I figured out that my stories weren't so much funny anymore. Heck they weren't even stories, so much as PDWs. (Public displays of wailing.)
The worst part is that Life really didn't whap me at all. It whapped people I love and some of the sweetest old dogs ever what graced this earth. (Told you I'm not a writer: 'ever what graced this good green earth'? I just like how it sounds, so that's how it stays.) I stand around here all unwhapped, virginal in my unwhappedness. I should be doing cartwheels and off-to-see-the-wizard clicking of heels.
Instead, I'm Madame Morose.
I found myself wandering around this new land, a land so null and void of Funny Little Stories that it made Job's famous dung heap look like an SNL skit (the OLD Belushi/ Aykroid/ Curtain/ Radnor/ Morris/ Chase/ Newman cast, I'm talking - pee your pants funny). Not that my life in any way resembled Job's. No no no. I had nothing but good, and I recognized that, it was just that I couldn't come up with a Funny Little Story for the life of me.
I got tired of reading my wails and I was sure that you were too. Sick and tired. So I stopped.
Kind and generous folks have encouraged me to start up again. I've tried a bunch of times. But my Funny Little Story maker is broke down. I can't find the Funny for the life of me. Poor, poor, poor Bill. He married this Young Honey who was all sparkly and entertaining and now he's stuck with Madame Morose who cries at breakfast because there are assholes in this world who want to de-fund public broadcasting. (Because the amount of money per year spent on public broadcasting represents about 0.003 percent of the federal budget, or $1.35 per American citizen, and I know that extra $1.35 per year in MY pocket will sure make a big difference to me. In fact, come to think of it, if I had that extra $1.35 per year I'd probably be able to find the Funny Little Stories again.)
Okay, there might just be a Funny Little Story about the HoodieFootie that Bill gave me for Valentine's and which I've worn constantly since. Except at work.
So. Here I am. I am not funny. This blog is not going to be what it was. Maybe if I write consistently again once in a while a Funny Little Story might come gasping to the surface for air and then I'll let you know that it did.
I don't know what I'll write about, but don't expect much. I don't want to disappoint.
hug your hounds