30 Days of Not Doing 30-Days-Of Posts (Subtitled: It's about ta get rawl meta rawl quick.)

Editor's note: OK. So I started this post approximately two months ago, when bloggers presumably were actually doing this 30-days-of thing. And now there's been a whole nother blogger thing I didn't do.

(Oh? Oh? That "whole nother" pet peeve was so 2010? It's not even a conversation starter anymore, much less a joke? Well, screw you. I'm old. I know this because I realized watching a rerun of The Office that I missed a joke about DVRs the first time I saw the episode because I don't have and have never had a DVR. How fucking '02 am I? I thought only some people had DVR. Maybe it was a fad, I thought. When did everyone get one?)

Ahem. So, now there was another blogger fad - best post of 2010 - that I didn't do. Let's be honest, nothing posted on this blog is going to win "best" of anything. I'm well aware this whole blog is sliding under the professor's door, one minute before deadline, full of typographical errors and sporting a cheese curl stain, and I've come to accept this.

I'd rather have a "C" blog than an unhappy blog. State school, here we come!

Anyway, so now I missed two blogger fads, and I'm feeling really uncool. I'm like the greasy hair girl with glasses in the back corner of class, and all the cool kids are like, "TADA! I performed a Christmas miracle!" or "My Top Ten Classiest and Most Thoughtful Posts of Yore." And then, they either saved a homeless person from a meat grinder on Christmas Eve or wrote my face off with their poignancy and tone.

So far this year, I posted a saved post, which was basically a fart joke. I haven't made any New Year's resolutions, and the other day, I went to an urgent care place because I realized I had some sort of upper respiratory infection, so the doc gave me some medicine. I asked if I could drive on it, and she said, "OH YEAH. No problem!" And then, I went back to work, took the medicine, and woke up two hours later in a puddle of my own drool. Professional.

Sounds about right. Here's to 2011! And here's the post about the fad that I originally started writing and never finished, except now I'm finishing it ...

God bless bloggers. So many of them have written thoughtful, funny, touching or painful posts for that 30 Days of Truth thingiewatchit.

Totes love reading it. Like when that 25 Things meme went around Facebook in '08.

The idea of doing it makes me want to iron my face on the Linen setting with steam. Know why?

Because it's FUCKING HOMEWORK AND I AM UP TO MY ASS IN ALLIGATORS AND IF ONE MORE PERSON ASKS ME FOR SOMETHING, I SWEAR I AM GOING TO TAKE A NERF MACHINE GUN INTO A CONVENIENCE STORE AND BLOW shit UP.

Ahem.

So. Whatchu been up to?

I've been needling people and pissing off public officials for a living. Turns out? I'm pretty good at it. Which I'd be really psyched about if I lived in a big city and not in a place where I have to actually wear pants to the grocery store because I know too many fucking people because of my job.

*sigh*

Life is hard.

So, in the last 30 days, I haven't done anything close to poignant, and really, if you knew the other shit I had to do at work recently, you'd be all, "Glad it's you and not me. I could not handle that." And I'd be all, "Thanks, I can't really handle it either, and I could really use some talk therapy, so now I'm going to tell you every detail of the disturbing crap I've had to witness."

And then you'd be all, "So ... um, I wish I didn't know that. Please stop. Let's talk about something else."

Which is why you're kind of a bad friend, because you didn't let me vomit all the disturbing details into your brain so I could get them out of mine. How dare you?

I'm sorry. You're not a bad friend. Even PHubby won't listen to it. I don't blame him. I really don't. But I also don't service him in the car anymore.

This is where I'm ending this old post. I think I never finished it because I really had nowhere to go. It's just a lot of navel-gazing, which is what blogging is, but this one is navel-gazing at a pity party.