Oh, God no! A blog!!

Yeah, so I never thought I'd be one of those blog people. No offense, blog people. I just never thought I'd go crazy enough to think someone actually cared enough about my thoughts to read them. I'm really not that interesting. And who knows how often I'm gonna update this. Knowing me, I'll stick with it for like a week and then I'll forget all about it. Then, just when you think I've totally dropped off the face of the earth, I'll remember and make some other random post. Seriously, though, I'm not interesting. I don't really have anything to say. Self-esteem issues? Yeah, I guess you could say that.

So I guess you're wondering about me. Not much to tell. Just some dull, boring person out there typing away. Basics: I'm 27, married for about 5 years, slightly insane, and more than a little depressed. I have a son; he's 1 1/2 and a handful. But he's my world, and I wouldn't trade him for anything. Though, I would be willing to loan him out in exchange for diamonds, cash, and sleep. Mostly sleep. I'm a night owl. Which really doesn't make sense to me. Aren't ALL owls 'night owls?'

I like to call what I have "nighttime insomnia." Basically, I have trouble sleeping at night. I do sleep. I love sleep. But I have a lot of trouble falling asleep at night. I think that started when my son was born and I went about a week on just a few hours of sleep. Postpartum depression is a bitch. I'm sure I'll talk more about THAT later. Want me to talk more about it sooner? Let me know. It's one of my causes, I guess. Anyway, so I can't sleep at night. Believe me, I've tried. I just lie in bed staring at the wall or ceiling for hours. Very dull. But when the daylight rolls around, I'm exhausted. "No shit," you're thinking. "You were up all night." Duh. But at least I tried to sleep. Then again, sometimes I don't even try. I know I won't be able to sleep, so what's the point?

I'm a stay-at-home mommy. Those of you who've been there know that this is NOT an easy job. The rest of you are thinking, "So what's the big deal, bitch?" Maybe not in those words, but this is my blog and I can assume whatever I want. Yeah, I know what they say about when you assume. I'm an ass already. Sue me. Anyway, so this whole stay at home thing isn't as easy as one would think. Yeah, you don't have to go into work. But you don't get to come home from work either. The pay sucks, monetarily speaking. You have to work early mornings, nights, weekends. You don't even get holidays off, unless it's Mother's Day. Sometimes I do wish I'd gone back to work after my son was born. But I had so much trouble attaching because of the PPD that once I did, I just couldn't bear leaving him. Anyway, daycare is expensive, and my job was just part-time. I would have essentially been working just to pay the daycare bill. Why should I work to pay for someone else to raise my son when I can do it myself. And I do pick up a bit of scratch here and there. Paid-to-read programs, surveys, a bit of direct sales when I feel like it. Hey, it pays for my horrendous eBay and Amazon addictions.

I guess that's about it. Maybe I'll write more sometime. If you guys like me, that is. Which you won't. I'm not exciting or interesting or funny or cool. I'm pretty lame. But when I'm not going emo about crap, I'm pretty okay with my lame-osity. .....No. I'm not emo. I'm female. And we all know that all emos are little pansy gay boys. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay. I'm cool with gay. It's emo that I hate. And don't comment me with a bunch of shit about how I unfairly hate emos and how I'm all stereotyping and crap. I know I am, and I don't care. They fuckin suck. I'm SO sorry your upper-middle-class life sucks so much you have to dress like a moron and make shallow little surface scratches on your arms so you can show your friends how hardcore and depressed you are. If you really WERE so fucked in the head that you had to cut yourself to deal, you'd be doing it on your upper thigh or way upper arm or some other secluded place where no one can see it. And if you DID do it on your arm, you'd make up some lie, like "I scratched it on the doorway" or "The dog scratched me when we were playing." Trust me on this. I'm so sorry you have to sit around and cry all the time about how rich mommy and daddy don't love you. Yeah, they DO love you. Get over yourself. No one wants to hear your lame death poetry, sung in a "mournful" voice as you strum the one chord you know on your acoustic guitar. Cheer up, emo kid! :D I also hate hippies. More on this later.

So yeah, comment or whatever. Maybe I'll write again someday.