Excuses. Excuses.

If there was a song called “Excuses, Excuses”, it would most definitely be the theme song for my life. Why? Well, it’s pretty self explanatory but let me spell it out … I am an excuses person.

I cant’ write because I’m creatively stuck; I dont have anything wonderful/profound/funny to say; I’m not wonderful/profound/funny enough…

I can’t exercise because I’m sore/tired/busy… Which then means I can’t lose weight. Oh and, of course, I can’t lose weight also because I’m waaay too busy with my super-hectic mother-of-five life even though two of them are off flying their wings in their own wonderfully busy worlds.

I’m not finished…

I also can’t be successful at anything, ever, because I’m not good-enough/worthy- enough/pretty-enough/skinny-enough. Nope I’m just your regular no-good, unworthy, ugly, fat imposter!

Oh and lets not forget the biggest excuse of all… I’ll give you a hint… Tick. Tock.

You guessed it! I can’t possibly find the time for what will make me a better all round human being because I am soooooooo busy spending forty-five billion hours scrolling on mind-numbing social media bullshit.

Can’t. Can’t. Can’t.

If you say it often enough, and all you can hear is cunt. Cunt. Cunt.

And that is precisely what they are. Cunty bloody excuses.

Realistically what it is that I actually cunt can’t do anymore is continue with these pathetic, boring and repetitive excuses. They are stopping me from leading the best kind of life available to me and honestly, who knows how much time I have left. I am definitely, I think, over the halfway mark, at least, which means, if I’m lucky, I’ve got a little over 40 years left to do all the things I desperately want to do!

Life is short. I know this.

If I leave my excuses behind I could actually spend my time left doing what it is I love.

Like, writing that bloody book that has been festering inside me for a really, really long time – or preferably BOOKS – plural!

Like, writing in general because it is my release. My power. My full fuel tank. My joy. My identity – to a degree.

Like, be consciously fit and healthy, not just physicallly but mentally too so I’m not struggling to walk up the stairs or puffing to put my shoes on. So I’m not doubting myself and constantly feeling like a fraudster.

Like, being a calmer and more present mother when my children want to share the step by step detailed story on how the paint dried. I’ve gotta make that story the most exciting part of my day because those stories will dry up quicker than the paint ever will.

I am a simple woman. I don’t want for much – not really. I don’t care for fame or being a crazy rich, successful career woman. I like nice things, but I’m not prepared to give up my identity to obtain them.

I just have this bubbling constantly inside of me, which gets more intense the longer it is in between my writing. Right now the bubbling is at its optimum cunt-astrophic levels.

I must learn to write every day. It doesn’t always have to be profound or humorous or even read by another person.

It just needs to be written – head filtered through the heart and released through my fingertips to the keyboard.

It’s like a drug to me.

Like a Russell Brand meditation on Xanex.

So here I am. Quitting the excuses (today at least). Ignoring my starving/bored/paint-drying-story-telling children, the shit-thecleaners-coming-tomorrow dirty floors and my “real” work – you know the one I actually get paid to do and instead I am writing.

So say hello. You’ll be seeing me around here more often.

LD ||

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