Hi, I have a blog.

Sissy Biscuit is now on Tumblr.  

Check out the new site at: www.sissybiscuit.com     

Let me begin by saying—I used to have a blog when I was in college. It was a really fun way to tell all of my friends about how terrible my dates were and recall all of our crazy partying and whatnot. I also once got so bored in college that I made upwards of 50 origami swans for absolutely no reason. This is true. You can ask my friend who walked into my room and saw me completely covered in them (she just quietly left).

     What I’m saying is I used to have oodles of time on my hands. Now, I am an Adult with a capital “A.” Except, not really. I think maybe I’m supposed to be, but I’m really just squeaking by on that one. When my husband doesn’t come home I regularly eat dinners composed of whatever is closest to me—marshmallows, an entire bag of goldfish, two crackers dipped in suspicious smelling tuna salad, cold spaghetti eaten with my bare hands…you get the point.

     Now, I do have a husband. That’s pretty Adult-like. I’m only twenty-five years old and I hear that’s a young age to get married. I think it’s all relative, though. In other countries fourteen is like, really pushing it into spinsterhood. Is that other countries or the 1700s? Oh, this would probably be a good time to explain that I am bad at history, math, science, and I am perpetually politically incorrect. “Sissy” is not my real name. I won’t tell you my real name because I don’t want you to take something I say the wrong way and egg my house. I really hate cleaning. And I don’t approve of wasting food.

     I still need to think up a fake name for the husband. I think it would be really funny to use something  inappropriate like “Razzle Bottom.” As in, “Last night, Razzle Bottom sat on the couch in his underwear and watched How It’s Made for three hours.” I’m open to suggestions.

     I have an Adult corporate job that I will never, ever talk about because I’m not stupid enough to be the headline “Blogger Gets Fired for Being Dumb Enough to Think the Internet is Private.” But I do think it is fair to say that on top of having a real job that doesn’t pay me in Monopoly money and hugs, I have always wanted to be a writer. In 2008 I got an idea for a novel and since then I have been painfully picking at that scab of a book and just will not let it go.

     In this type of economy, anyone who makes money and has a warm place to sleep should be happy and get on their knees and thank whatever they pray to. I am fortunate enough to also have a life filled with concerts, dinners out, mani/pedi/martini bitch fests with my girlfriends, and the funds to support a victoriassecret.com addiction that is rapidly approaching the need for a twelve step program. I have a lovely husband who is definitely too good for me—and yet, there is a void in my life where I often envisioned myself sitting with Oprah and telling her about my “process.” Oprah would tell me about how she stayed up all night reading my book and how it changed her entire perception of the world and I would nod gracefully as Amazon.com blew up with people making me a kabillionare one order at a time.

     Actually, fame would be nice. I’d really like to hug Paul Simon—which I believe is something you can do when you’re famous. But it’s not really about the money or anything. I have this book inside me and I fear that if I don’t finally and completely get it out of me and actually try to get it published then one day I will be shopping at the mall, mindlessly filling my life with the satisfaction of a BOGO sale and I will IMPLODE and splatter my guts all over NY&Co.

     If anyone else is experiencing this kind of heart-wrenching creative distress, please step forward. I often wish that I were the type of person who could be satisfied to sit and watch television all weekend and never feel the pang of guilt that comes with not working on my craft. I want to forget about writing altogether. The stress of wondering—can I do it? Will I ever finish? What if this actually sucks and I wasted my entire life thinking I’m special? The release of that stress would give me enough time to---well, probably sit on the couch and watch TV because who the hell am I kidding. It’s not like I’m going to learn a skill. I would be able to peacefully watch skinny gay men make matrimony sausages by shoving huge women into sample size wedding dresses on Say Yes to the Dress: Big Bliss. On the commercial break, I wouldn’t think, “I’m better than this crap. I should be working on my novel.” I would think, “I am so hungry for sausages.” 

Unfortunately, I don’t think this desire to write will ever go away. I guess I’m blogging again in effort to release some of it. I’m also working on that novel again. There are about 30 printed versions of it that I’ve kept in my closet over the years and if it ever gets published, mark my words—there will be an incredibly large piñata made from them.

I’m going to try and keep this up. I’m not really sure what it’ll be besides all the stupid garbage that my brain scoops up during the day. I would really love if I could have some of your input, too. I think our generation lives in a time when we have to decide between dreams and eating. How do you handle that? Are you actually doing what you love perchance? I’d like to know how you’re getting along. 

I’d also really like to know if anyone else has to put their fingers in their ears and close their eyes and pretend they’re in their own bathroom in order to poop in a public restroom.

        I already feel like I’m not alone.