I Don’t Have Time for That Shit.
I like to write. I haven’t done it much in the last six months; I have been working through some shit that needed working. And I think I have come to a good place. A place to begin again, with a clean slate, on a fresh start. I have a chance to get it right.
No regrets or anything. I am not mad or beating myself up for neglecting my writing. It would be pointless and counterproductive. What I am is eager to dive back in, now that I know where I’m going.
You know what doesn’t help, though? Like, in any way whatsoever?
- What doesn’t help is bitches who act like writing is a silly hobby best left for kids.
- What doesn’t help is bitches who indicate that creativity is unimportant.
I have a certain “friend” whom I shall refer to henceforth as “Cunty McGee” because I would hate to get in trouble by using her real name.
I placed “friend” in quotations because clearly we aren’t friends.
So the obvious question you might have is,
“Why do you hang out with someone who obviously isn’t really your friend, given you call her Cunty McGee?”
Because there are certain people in this world with whom you are just obligated to interact.
Maybe it’s a coworker, extended family, or friend-of-a-friend.
Maybe it’s your landlord or your husband’s boss.
Maybe it’s a neighbor.
It’s all well and good to urge me to cut her out of my life.
Unfortunately, I’m stuck with her whether or not I like it.
Sometimes it just be what it be.
So Cunty McGee comes over and starts talking about work. Her job is boring to me, but I listen because that’s what civilized people do, right?
Then she asks how my writing is coming along. I start to answer, and she just dismisses it with a wave of her hand:
I wish I could find the time to write. I’m just too busy for that.
Another time, Cunty McGee comes by and we talk about how hard it is to keep our schedules straight. I tell her about the cool scrapbooking-agenda-type-journal-planners my sister and I just purchased, and how much I looked forward to getting mine all prettied up with decorations and doo-dads.
With another wave of her hand, she again dismisses me:
Arts and crafts — I don’t have time for that shit!
I know what she MEANS to say. She MEANS to say (or what I like to IMAGINE she means to say, at any rate, because I want to assume the best and not the worst) is:
Writing and creativity are unimportant to me, thus I do not make time for them, but yay for you enjoying them enough to make them a priority in your life.
I know that’s what she MEANS to say, because that’s what a civilized person who doesn’t write or create would say.
But, sadly, my logic is at war with my heart, so what I actually hear is this:
Writing and creativity are childish endeavors best left for the young. Grow up and get a job. Do something REAL with your life. Art is pointless and you are wasting time. Basically, you’re a loser.
The reason I hear this is because it’s my worst fear. It’s what Depression (that lying bitch) whispers in my ear. It’s what I’m afraid people think of me.
It’s what *I* sometimes think of me.
Yeah. I don’t have time to get a “real” job. I don’t have time to work in an office, groom dogs, or sell clothes at the mall. I don’t have time to flip burgers or file company documents. I don’t have time to be employed by Corporate America, selling my soul for a week of vacation that I must have express and quite grudging permission to even use. I don’t have time to buy farm animals. I don’t have time to be an entrepreneur and start my own business.
I don’t have time to do things that aren’t fun. I don’t have time to stop enjoying my life. I don’t have time for anything that takes me away from the things that I love.
You know what I DO have time for?
- Writing. Spending time with my writing partner and finally completing my novel. I’m pretty good at writing, and I can throw a mean apostrophe, y’all. Plus my writing partner is fucking phenomenal company. I love her to bits.
- Arts and crafts. Spending time with my sister. I’ve discovered recent years that I actually *DO* have a creative bone in my body, and that making things is fun. Moreover, my sister is my mind-twin and I cherish every moment we share. I love her like no other.
- My family. My husband and our siblings. Our son. Our daughter. Our niece and nephews. Our parents. Our friends.
- Noms. Food. Wine. Margaritas. Water.
- Mental health. Meditation. Yoga. Blogging. Organizing my life.
- More noms. Cool Ranch Doritos. Coffee. Chocolate.
- Hobbies. Reading. Netflix and Amazon.
- Communication. Saying, “I love you” to the people I love.
- Forgiving. Like, Cunty McGee and anyone else who has hurt me and mine.
- Basically ALL THE NOMS. Dr Pepper. Popcorn. York Peppermint Patties.
There are a lot of things on the list of what I DO have time for. This is just off the top of my head.
You know what is not on that list, and what shall never appear there ever as long as I live so help me Baby Jesus?
I don’t have time for Cunty McGee and her judgy judgment.
I have words to write, art to make, people to hug, and alcohol to consume.
I am 40 years old now. It’s a bit late in the game for me to start being a grownup. From what I can tell, adulting is too hard, anyway, and it certainly looks boring, if Cunty McGee is any example.
Nope. Ain’t nobody got time for that.