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Too Much Pressure

Placing words on paper (or a screen) is a crushing burden. Do I sound witty? Dull? Stupid? Smart? Do I want to be the woman that this post sounds like? When I thought about starting a blog, I brainstormed with myself catchy blog names that would make people flock to my side and want to be my best friend. I entertained “idea shots” which is not to be confused with ideas that come to me while consuming alcohol, which is actually quite an effective way to brainstorm, but bursts of noise that consume my brain while I drive 50 minutes to work and 50 minutes back home every day. Mostly they’re blog content ideas (song lyrics, DIY projects, band names, blog titles, funny quotes). I quickly scribble down these tidbits of conversation that I hope will split your sides with laughter, uproot your life and boggle your mind.

And although my dream is to lure (yes, lure) 10 million of you to this site to pour over my laureate-worthy writing and write raving reviews in The New York Times, I realize that if I were to even publish this inaugural post, I must write for just one person. So, dear reader, if ever you stumble upon this page, know that this blog is completely selfish. It’s just for me. I write for that neglected part of my limbic system that is my emotional center. I write things that I can’t, or don’t, always say out loud. I write so that maybe someday I can share my thoughts and feelings out loud. I write so that maybe one day I’ll know what those thoughts and feelings are, and I’ll know what I think and how I feel about them. I write for therapy, and I write for me. So if you find a little solidarity in this pavement-crack of the internet, I will smile, pour you a cup of html and ask about your day. Stay if you want, leave if you’re smart. But if you stay, I promise we can be crazy together.

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