Slacking as an Art Form

I hear the voices already. No, not the ones in my head--these voices are the din of dissent from disgruntled readers. These are the readers who expect their Robblog to be more regular than their daily bathroom visit. These are the proud people who value quantity over quality.

"Look at Rob's poo!"

And I appreciate that from you. I promise that as long as I blog, you will never need to worry about quality. I will always present the same old crap.

Quantity, on the other hand, that's gonna be different problem. I can't always create the morning novella and some mornings I can't even scratch my name on a Post-It. This week, I've had multiples of the latter and it's made me even later. I wrote what, three blogs this week? That’s one per reader. I know I like to keep it personal, but that seems silly.

Even my dad's going, "Dude! Where's your blog?"

Ok, so that's not a direct quote. To Dad a dude is a guy at a ranch. The last time he saw me at a ranch, I was thrown from a raging goat; I was twenty-five.

A lot of time has passed since then, and the goat tossing is just goats under the troll bridge. I'm better now.

Still, I'm having trouble with quantity. There's so little time and the ideas and blog goats are nervous and hiding. I'm having trouble with the regular verbal sacrifice.

When I divorced, the words were on the tip of my tongue. I spewed venom like a pit viper on crack. Poison words were all I had. Now I have a life that involves a cat and Rob quirk. Suddenly divorce is nothing more than a bitter taste of the past.

Scratch that. It’s anything but sudden. I've lived two years of less than "suddenly" getting used MyEx admitting that she was done. Two years of getting up and spitting words and blood to daily define who I am and how I feel.

“Every day and every way I’m getting better and better.”

Yeah right. Except it is right. People used to ask how I was doing, and I’d always tell them I was healing. I’m not healing anymore. I’m healed. I don’t harbor ships of hatred towards MyEx, I don’t even have bathtub boats and bubbles for her bobbing to the surface in her honor. I have a 8mm mental reel of our marital real, it shows occasionally, but it plays to an empty house. Even my head voices are bored. I’m divorced.

Emphasis on the “ed”

So now I have other issues that occupy my mind. I have cats and mice and dogs and bills and bands and girls and pirates and queens and other things that go bump in the night. Somewhere I need to find time to talk about things that don’t mean the same to me as they once did. I’ve moved on.

So hang in there with me dear reader as I find where Rob and his blog of glory lie on the treasure map of life. I may appear a little more sporadic, but I promise to bring you the same crap I always have.