You know, since I started this blog I have felt some restraint about what I write here. I mean, my students, coworkers, in-laws, family and friends all read this blog (or at least they say they do) and so I try to be funny without being as off-color as I might be otherwise.
Then I read the “Dooce” weblog. I was inspired.
Honestly, last night I read about this bloggers toddler, how she pooped a monstrous, explosive poop on the floor and how their dog found it and…you guessed it…started eating it. It was so foul, but so funny, I actually alternated between the gag reflex and laughing until I cried. I then proceeded to read the rest of her posts that were labeled under the heading “poop.” It was awesome.
On the other hand, she got fired for blog, making her extremely famous as the first blogger to get fired for what she had said on her blog.
I, on the other hand, am chicken. Look at me! I can’t even say “chicken-shit.” I grew up in a small town. My words have haunted me before.
It’s just as bad with my writing. Honestly, I’ve been working on a novel for two years and I am terrified to send it to a publisher for fear that it will actually get published. Why? It a suspense novel about sexual predators, statuatory rape and other such savory subjects, and I just know my family is going to be sending me e-mails and letters saying, in essence, “What the hell?” I understand why people publish under pen names.
Ironically, I love both foul, macabre subjects and…Louisa May Alcott. L.M. Montgomery. I secretly liked “Pollyanna.” It’s a weird twist that I have that occasionally comes out. I mean, I was sitting at the desk in the Children’s area reading Edward Gorey and laughing myself silly, much to the consternation of my co-workers. It’s hard to explain. I do love kids. They’re delicious with a little lemon and salt.
Honestly, I think one reason I haven’t posted in so long has been my fear of saying something about work that someone might read, misinterpret, and fire me for. I mean, when I look at revenue from my ads, I think, “Nobody reads this website. And I mean nobody.” And then someone (always someone young and impressionable or supervisory and scary) will say, “I read in your blog the other day….” and I quake with fear.
Anyway, I feel inspired by Dooce.com, and some day, when I am unemployed and anonymous, I will write something as funny and witty and horrible as Heather B. Armstrong.
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