Vultus est index animi

Something I’m coming to terms with in having this blog is that I feel I owe something to my handful of loyal readers. To be honest, I’ve never understood why anyone takes an interest in this slow-motion train wreck other than to play the Secret Santa mix game I organize. Yes, I write well enough (enough to achieve stardom as the wacky columnist of a backwater newspaper, probably) but that hardly seems the reason. Yet read I am and not just because they got here googling “upskirt pics” or “how to unscrew the lid of an Ocean Spay juice bottle and keep skin on your hand”. I get a lot of hits for the “Back Yardigans” on one of the first things I posted on Patriside and one or two of those readers actually still stick around (apparently the Back Yardigans are huge in Latin America). Something keeps a twisted few intrigued.

Maybe it’s the way it takes me forever to say something. As in, the reason I haven’t been posting much lately has to do issues not involving ropes, jello, or mounds of cocaine.

Obviously, the election (especially that last month when the media tried to turn it into a squeaker) had me busy and preoccupied. Fortunately for all of us, I wasn’t the only American who felt that things weren’t just swell with the nation. A week after the votes were counted, it’s apparent that the GOP continues its streak of fucking up, the inertia of screwing the pooch (and hot man-on-man sex) too much for the brakes. That crew has leapt the curb and is skidding across the lawn, straight for Junior’s bedroom.

More than that, though, has been the wretched past few weeks at work. I started writing this post last Friday but I was beat up, sore, my hands swollen and my knuckles sore, a bruised rib throbbing every time I took in a breath.

The thing I hate the most about my job is a kid so out of control that he needs to be restrained. For two months I had been lucky, the guys in my cabin were going along great, I had probably been involved in two restraints that whole time. Last week I was involved in a restraint every day, three on of those days. Sunday I was involved in six restraints (though to be fair to My Kids, I was being called to other cabins to help out). After shifts like those I’m drained, physically and emotionally; I can’t read, I can’t write, I can only turn on some tunes and decompress.

Then, get up and do it again, amen. Except, the low pay and time it takes from my kids has made my mornings/early afternoons before my shift a grind of cranking out cover letters and sending out resumes. And searching, oy the searching.

The least I can do is offer that explanation to you intrepid angels who keep checking me for an update along witha heartfelt thanks for being so faithful. I wish I could promise to be better about updating but that’s not happening, at least for a couple of weeks. For those of you who are waiting for the next mixmania! theme, I’ll try to get that posted by Friday but again, no promises.

Until this all works itself out, I hope you’ll keep checking with me to see if I’ve poked something up from the slot in my hidey-hole. I can promise this: whatever I shove out into the light of day won’t be something I shouldn’t have eaten. I wouldn't do that to you fine people.