I’m thinking of starting a blog …

I’m torn.

I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

No, I’m not quitting my job. I’m just a bit confused, I suppose. My head is filled with all these dreams and ideas and plans that I do nothing with. Then, sometimes, my head feels like it could explode at any moment, blowing all these little ideas into the air to never be seen or heard of again.

A running list:

Of course, the children’s bookstore. (Business plan halfway finished. Plans to attend bookselling school.)

The children’s book (already written. pitched once. failed.)

Whoopie Pie business (already has a name and a logo in the works.)

Full-time, millionaire blogger (will never happen. just a thought.)

Sidekick in my husband’s market research ventures

Freelance writer and editor.

Writer for Coastal Living magazine.

Friend of a very old sugar daddy (still looking.)

Not a great list, but it’s me. A girl can dream.

But here’s my deal. I have been reading a lot of great blogs lately, but I don’t know how these people do it. I mean, if I were to type on this screen what I’m REALLY thinking, I worry what my bosses would think. What would my mom think?

Hell, what would my husband think???

You see … how should I say this … I swear. A lot. And I tell nasty, gross stories. Ask any of my friends. (I only have a couple, so it won’t take long.) If I were to start spewing my stories–getting into a fight in my underwear in the locker room during gym class or some of the things I used to talk about in the garage at The Star with Pete and Brett–I’d probably be looked at in a whole new light at work AND at home.


So, how do they do it? Are these bloggers, the ones I actually like to read, stay-at-home moms who blog and have no worries in the world who reads their stuff? Cause hell, I can do that. Give me some high-dollar ads and make me a millionaire. I’ll sit in my living room in my best PJs. Hell, some days I’ll sit in my underwear and just tell stories. I have a lot of them. My head is exploding with all the stories I hold.

Sometimes, for no real reason, I want to drop the f bomb. I can’t help it.


Can’t do it.


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