One of the hardest things I’ve dealt with since becoming a mother is the feeling of being trapped.

I go through very long periods of insomnia and, during them, all I want to do is run around and be social or eat pounds of junk food and write. Unfortunately both of these are difficult if you have sleeping children. You can’t leave – not for a party, not for snacks, not for an inspiring walk. You’re just….stuck. I don’t think I can even describe the anxiety this causes me at times.

To be fair, I also do things like drink RedBull at 9pm and then vibrate at a high frequency so, y’know, kind of self-inflicted. Occasionally. And I think I was born with a pretty severe case of the FOMO. I operate somewhere in between “ants in my pants” and “disco cabin fever”, neither of which work very well when you’re a (good and not the abandoning type) mother. I’m screaming “I WANT TO DO ALL OF THE THINGS” on the inside, while sitting on my floor watching cheesy indie movies on Netflix.

Until my spawn are old enough to fend for themselves, I guess I’ll be doing jumping jacks in my living room when the crazy mood strikes. Either that or I’ll win the lottery and hire Mary Poppins.

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Brain vs. writer’s block vs. oh look, shiny things.

After years of only writing to myself, about myself, and for myself – I’m finally back to writing for others. Guys, shit’s hard.

Trying to put someone else’s inspiration into words can feel like staying in your best friend’s apartment. You might have the same taste in colours, in art and furniture, but it’s still just not quite your space. Or you could compare it to trying to crawl inside someone’s skin to use them like a writing puppet. But I’m not going to do that. Because that’s really creepy.

Creative motivation is an elusive dick. It seems to come in spurts, especially when you’re least able to devote the necessary time to get it all down. Like at 3am while you’re staring at strangely frantic shadows on the ceiling in the dark. Or in a sudden brain burst while you’re trying to navigate public transit with two spazzing spawns. None of this lends itself to working on a professional timeline, and it sure as hell isn’t consistent.

Luckily I have stupidly long legs so I’m great at leaping over obstacles, or whatever. I’m just going to surround myself with everything inspiring, and drown in positivity and focus. If you don’t have to work hard for it, do you even really want it?

(Shameless plug: Go on and check out Common Base, the amazing new company I’m now a part of and writing for. You’ll love us.)

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Shhh, it’s a (written for millions to see) secret…

I write poetry. Well, kind of poetry. Little poem things. I write it, them, whatever, a lot. No, like, a lot a lot.

Most people wouldn’t guess that. Most people don’t even get to see them. Actually, no people get to see them. I delete and/or toss my poems in the trash, unless I bond with them like a stray cat. Then I hide them forever, never to be seen again until I’m having some sort of existential crisis type emotional breakdown thing.

I’m obnoxious, blunt, terrible at sharing my feelings. Everything’s a joke to me and I laugh at all of the wrong times. Yes. ALL. OF. THEM. Not exactly a stereotypical poet. I suppose if I were to psychoanalyze myself I could say that I’m writing my feelings since I’m terrible at expressing them, that they’re my emotional outlet. But I’ll just stick with “I’m batshit crazy and don’t know how to human”. Sounds pretty much one hundred percent correct.

I want to be a writer. Screw that. I am one. I write. That’s basically the only requirement to being a writer, correct? And one day I may even write poetry, and show it to people, and try to get it published. But I’ll probably spend thousands on therapy and have at least forty intense and emotional personal epiphanies before that day.

And I’ll probably use an alias.

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Flirting isn’t illegal, but wouldn’t that be hot if it was.

I’m all for the end of rape culture and everything that comes with it. But I’m also concerned for the end of flirtation, passion, spontaneity.

I’ll admit, I’m a bitch. I admit this quite frequently. I’d probably get “BITCH” tattooed across my forehead if my mother wouldn’t disown me for it. If a man hits on me at the bar, I am anything but receptive. I’ve sworn, insulted. Thrown drinks. Even shoved men away by the face. Catcalls boil my blood, and unwanted attention in general makes me punchy.

But I’m starting to worry that men are just going to stop approaching women altogether, for fear of a feminist war. We crucify them for saying hi, for complimenting us, for offering to buy us a beer. Remember when girls would make plans for the night REVOLVING AROUND FREE DRINKS BOUGHT BY STRANGERS? That used to be a bragging point. Now it’s a soapbox to stand on while we scream about women’s rights.

I would be the 27 year old virgin if men never approached me. Actually, that’s not true. I, on several occasions, have approached men with an incredibly forward “Hey, you’re hot”. Because I am very smooth and charming. And that’s totally okay. Right? Which means it’s totally okay for men to throw us the same line.

Now, I don’t want to feel unsafe but c’mon, it’s not illegal to tell a pretty woman that she’s pretty. Where would Julia Roberts and Richard Gere be if that was the case? So, MEN! Don’t be scared. Tell us we’re pretty. Offer to buy us drinks. Just don’t be a fucking creep and NO means NO (but I shouldn’t have to tell you that).

*This blog has once again been brought to you by Steamwhistle who still haven’t offered me a sponsorship. Clearly they’re missing out.

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Leave me alone, I’m lonely. (That’s a P!nk song and it rules.)

I’m a fairly contradictory person so it only makes sense that my moods follow suit. In the span of 24hrs, I can go from being an incredibly sociable charmer to an awful, miserable shut-in. I’ve always been terrible at being alone and yet a craver of alone time. It doesn’t make any sense, it’s a pain in the ass, and I swear I’m not trying to be difficult.

My house is generally a disaster area and that fault is my own. Spending time alone in an empty house to finish chores is so not my idea of a good time. In fact, it usually turns me into a bitchy ball of anxiety. I would rather walk to the mall, browse some stores, judge some people, purchase approximately three different iced/caffeinated beverages, maybe buy a nail polish, judge some more people, take the long way around, sit at the park while the baby naps, judge even more people and then meander home after maybe just one more iced coffee. And that to me is a good day.

I don’t know when I became so terrible at being in a house alone. Maybe it started pre-kids when I would stay up all night chatting to friends on the Internet and then end up at McDonald’s for 5am breakfast “just because why not”. Maybe it stems from never really having lived alone since I’ve always had room mates or, now, children. Perhaps I’m just a needy little attention-seeker. But whatever the reason, it’s a damn real struggle.

Then on the flip side we have those nights where I would sell my entire family so that I could just get some freaking writing done and listen to my own thoughts for 60 minutes. Much like tonight where I am happy to hide out in the bathtub with a beer, a book, and my wireless iPad keyboard and y’all are blessed with this pointless (self-involved) rambling.

I’m an obsessor. It’s all or nothing for me, quite literally. And part of the reason that loving or living with me is one of the most challenging things that any human being could take on. YOU’RE WELCOME, LOVED ONES – PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE. Just trying to help you be all you can be.

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I wanna stand with you on a mountain and dance with you in a gym.

Remember the awkwardness of high school dances? Not knowing if anyone would ask you to dance or, the almost worse alternative, dealing with all of your friends shoving you towards whoever you were dating at the time while giggling maniacally. Then of course there was that teacher who’d make sure there was no enjoyable touching going on. We had the “RULER WIDTH APART!” gym teacher who carried a literal ruler. Talk about a bonerkill.

I’ve been marathoning Dawson’s Creek for the past four days and it’s causing loads of déjà vu, fond nostalgia and “Holy shiiiiiiit, I’m old!”. It’s hard to believe those years were almost a decade ago for me. I’m dating myself here, though I suppose my husband and two kids already did that. I’m assuming y’all are aware I wasn’t a child bride…though if you weren’t – I wasn’t.

Being a parent makes nostalgia incredibly double-sided. Part of me is remembering the good times with fondness and laughter, and the other is filing away those memories so that I can prevent my children from making them. NO FUN FOR YOU.

My high school years were horrid followed by awkward followed by amazing once I fell into the perfect friend group (love you six pack – yes, that’s what we called ourselves and we were really fucking cool). That time shaped me into the amazing, hilarious, foxy, total bitch that I am today and I wouldn’t change it even if time travel was a thing. Unless I could have had at least a B-cup…

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Mom vs. Monsters.

Solo-parenting for six days. Send help. Lots of it. SOS. The ship is going down.

Actually, I’m totally joking. I don’t know if it’s because of my previous years of experience as a single parent (two kids, two dads, it’s like a soap opera up in here – keep up) or my overwhelming control issues, but things have been all smooth sailing. Oh, sure. We all miss Dad! But I’m not ready to abandon the children and join a traveling band of buskers, so that’s a win.

Going back to the control issues, that was not a conveniently timed joke. For a lady who prides herself on her monumental vocabulary, it’s strange that mine doesn’t include the word “delegating”. It doesn’t matter the task, I guarantee you that I will find it faster and easier to complete alone. Unless the person aiding me is psychic. Is that an option?

I’m stubbornly independent, hate having to stop in the middle of a task, and terrible at explaining myself when focused. Absolutely none of that sets me up to work well with others. On high school report cards I would have A+++ in “Independent Studies”, and just a sad face beside “Teamwork”.

I was probably born to be one of those “lone wolf” types but messed up my fate by popping out some spawns and getting hitched. HA. TAKE THAT, FATE. I’m so rebellious. Anarchy forever, man.

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