Fuck it

That’s not to say there’s any kind of real problem here, just that my head is confused and this cold virus isn’t helping me at all.

Have you ever sat on a cusp, like a major teetering point in what could be construed as the very essence of the meaning of your existence?

That’s what I’m doing right about now.

There’s just so much to think about, and all I *really* want to do is crawl into bed with a trashy novel (I’m waiting, Ms. StY, for my copy of Twilight. I may just have Mr. Wisermom go out and buy it for me.) Since I don’t have a trashy novel, or rather THE trashy novel I want, I’ll just go off a bit.

See, I had this dream when I was young and then I killed it dead. And then years passed and I became a Mom and all was well excepting the fact that I had to keep working in a career I no longer felt committed to, but I could do that because my kids needed diapers and a roof over their heads.

And then I got asked to go back in time, and I did, and I didn’t have that dream again, not the same way, but, then, well, I wasn’t sure I wanted to come back to this present, just the way it is. I didn’t want to stop doing the thing that had always kept me who I was. Because without doing that thing, I was somehow a more hollow version of who I am. I thought maybe that was just age, and I don’t know – maybe it is. But I’m not having it, either way.

So now I’ve got all this other shit to figure out, like, what on earth does it mean? How can I keep a roof over our heads, be present with my kids when I’m not out trying to earn money, and then have anything left over to create something out of nothing, and what will I do with it then?

And on and so on, there are more paths for the future that are beginning to look viable, and I am utterly unsure which one to push forward on.

Fuck it.

I’m going to bed.